The American Dream
by Antiquadated
Summary: The tale of an independent scavenger in the Indiana wastelands who's searching for the find of a lifetime and, unwittingly, gets wrapped up in an adventure much greater than he could ever imagine.
1. Chapter 1

There it was.

The American Dream.

A happy family splayed out across the front of the decaying billboard, dad chomping down on a pipe while waving out at Mercer, mom cheerfully carrying a picnic basket against the folds of her sundress, a little boy grinning ear to ear under the shade of his baseball cap, and a little girl tugging on mom's dress with one hand and gripping a doll with the other. They were standing in a field, their brand new '77 Corvega gleaming behind them, sun shining down and the world at their feet. Literally, as it so happened; the billboard was leaning from its perch about 25 feet up beside the old interstate. But the world that they had been looking out on when the paint on the billboard was still wet and Dad's car would have run you the low, low price of $199,999.99 (with 0% APR financing if you act now), that world had died a long time ago. What was left of it spilled out before Mercer, a sad mockery of the world that, like a flashbulb going off or a shadow imprint from a nuke blast, had been captured on that forgotten piece of advertising.

He had to get moving, though. Miggs and his crew patrolled this stretch of Interstate 30, and he was already three months behind on his protection fee; they had let him off with a warning the first time, there would be body parts missing off him after the next "warning". With a grunt, he shifted his backpack and press-checked his pistol, nodding a little to himself when the gleam of a dirty 10mm round in the chamber caught the sunlight filtering down through the clouds. He hadn't killed anything in two weeks, anyone in almost a year; a little longer and he might just have to start letting himself believe he was a good person. That's what she had called him, whatever her name had been. Melissa? Melinda? Couldn't remember, but then, he hadn't been really paying attention to her so much as the street urchins trying to pry his wares off the pack brahmin. When he had thought about it on the trail, later that day, he laughed. A good person? He had brought her daughter back, sure, but he still had blood smeared across his face and a little bit of skull and gray matter matted into his hair; apparently, that passed for good around those parts. She hadn't been the first person to use the phrase, either, just the most emphatic. He was stirred from his thoughts by a loud crack from across the highway. Gunfire.

Mercer readied the N99, his hand awkwardly wrapping around the homemade duct tape grip, and swore under his breath. He'd been on a good streak lately, a _really_ good streak, with not killing anyone since he rescued what's her name's daughter. He'd gotten lucky, too; the punk had been alone, some runt fresh off his family's dirt farm with a chip on his shoulder and the family rifle. He had too much testosterone, too much pride, too few skills or notches on his belt to be picked up by any of the gangs, so he set out, probably figured he'd kill or screw or steal the first thing he saw. The kid had been young, not more than fifteen or sixteen, and the fear in his eyes when Mercer kicked down the door had been the hardest part of the whole job. All of those factors had kept him alive and unharmed then. Now, deep into Miggs' territory and three months down on his toll, packing only his shoddy 10mm that Jim had sold him, "grips not included" and the shotgun that had been out of shells for weeks now, he was not happy with his chances. Moving away from the gunfire, which continued to crackle and sputter from behind the mess of dead trees on the other side of the interstate, he clambered down into a gully that most of the interstate had slid into over time. Chunks of sun-baked concrete and rusted guide rails bent all out of shape littered the ground, slowing his pace to a cautious tiptoe. Tetanus was no laughing matter, a lot of guys got it from prospecting. They'd laugh about how the worst injury they got from escaping a raider base was from a nail jutting out of the door, and a week or two later, they'd be sitting in the clinic with lockjaw, or dead. Again, Mercer had been lucky, unreasonably so; he'd had a few scrapes from rusty metal, like anyone who lived in the Wasteland and was stupid enough to try their hand at scavenging as a business, but he'd always gotten himself into town for a shot soon after.

Town was sounding better and better to him as he climbed over a large section of eroded roadway, his pack dragging against the desiccated corpse of a sleek n' sporty sedan, perfect for weekend trips for you and the missus. Olum was a smallish place, nothing like the Fort, but it was reasonably safe. Few gangs tried to attack, knowing that the Fort took the defense of its farming communities seriously. Besides that, the town's trading community was better than most small settlements; Ortley knew his stuff, even if he was a fussy old codger. The gunfire grew fainter as he pressed forward, it was moving further away from him, back towards the ruins of the motor lodge and the burger joint. That whole tourist trap area was Miggs' base, so there was little doubt as to the identity of one of the warring parties. Maybe if his luck held, they'd kill each other off and open up the whole section of 30 through there for a while, at least until some other gang rolled in and started charging transit tolls. If not, there were always the side streets like the one he was hiking down at present, gun still at the ready. The burned-out remains of a couple of farmhouses lay close to the dirt road, but he was more concerned about getting back to town than he was picking through ashes. It was a good 30 minute walk to Olum, provided the weather held and the men caught up in the firefight decided not to make a U-turn and start heading towards Mercer's location.

As the minutes ticked by and his feet shuffled him ever closer to the town gates, his mind began to wonder once more. The American Dream. Had it ever been real, any of it? The world before seemed like a dreamland, a wish that everyone in the scorched and barren earth had held so tightly to that it began showing up on faded billboards and inside decaying magazines. Old World Blues, they called it, that heavy feeling in your heart and that tireless turning of your mind towards the fabled past. Some had it worse than him; men who locked themselves away in fantasies, filling their homes and their heads with the trash of a forgotten world, telling themselves that they could bring it all back if they just got a little more. There was a fellow he'd seen back in Coesse, before it was razed to the ground by Largo's boys, who spent what was probably his life savings on nothing but Abraxo. Some idiot trader, probably on his first caravan, had found a cargo truck that crashed off the side of the highway and grabbed as much of the stuff as he could; he probably thought he was going to be set for life with a hundred boxes of pre-War cleaning powder. Well, the guy who bought it all went home and started cleaning everything he owned. Tools, guns, clothing, everything he could get his hands on, into the bathtub it went with a fresh box of Abraxo. When the town guards finally got called out to the place, the guy was dead from the fumes, hadn't even gone through a third of his stock, but the place was spotless; even the walls and floor, it had been scrubbed so hard that tiles were knocked out of place and the plaster had been chipped off the walls. The dead guy had a huge grin on his face; not unlike, as he had heard from a trader who'd bought one of the guards a beer later that day, one of the perpetually-chipper housewives in the Abraxo posters that were all over the wasteland.

There were times when he thought about giving in, crawling into a bottle or a pile of holotapes, whichever was cheaper, and just escaping the dirt and the grime and the blood and the pain. A simpler time, they called it, and yet, it had so much that he could only dream about. It was a time when you owned your quarter acre of America, complete with a neatly-manicured Kentucky bluegrass lawn and a new station wagon sitting in the driveway. You had roast duck for dinner, slippers and a martini as you watched the news, your wife smiling in pearl earrings and a blue housedress, and a new Mr. Handy to clean up around the house. The biggest thing you had to fear was taxes or a divorce, whatever either of those things were. With all of that to come home to, every day, no wonder they didn't expect the bombs; after a month of living like that, Mercer himself would be hard-pressed to even remember the wasteland had ever existed. Yet, it all seemed so far away, like a forgotten childhood that everyone kept trying to remember. The reminders were there, if you looked hard enough at the moth-eaten clothes hanging from the bleached skeletons in the older ruins, or the rusted hunks that had once been top-of-the-line machinery. They just weren't happy reminders. It was as though he was looking at road signs, all telling him that mankind had gone too far, but he was unable to turn around and drive the other way. The analogy made him chuckle as he passed a battered piece of sheet metal that had **Olum** **\- 1 mile** painted on it.

The last push got him to the gates without any great exertion, though he was looking forward to putting his feet up and taking a rest. The guard on duty barely glanced at his paperwork before signalling for the gate to open; Mercer had passed through Olum so many times that he knew all the regular guards by name, most of the rookies, too. The snorting of a diesel generator flared up as the metal gate was raised by a pulley system, with Scott waving him through impatiently; it was close to shift change, no doubt, and the man wanted to get to the bar, or the cathouse if he had just gotten paid. With a smirk and salute back to the men at the gate, Mercer walked onto the cracked pavement of Van Buren Street and pushed ahead into the city center. There were old houses lining both sides of the road, older than the ones on the Old World advertisements he'd seen, even; these ones were charming, above and beyond the charm that anything pre-War had about it, with sloped roofs and white clapboard siding (which was really more of a dull, washed out grey), double-hung windows and quaint little porches that had probably once held grandmas sipping lemonade on a warm summer's day. Most of the homes were even still there, blessedly few had gone up when the gas lines underground burst from the bomb blasts; at least, that's what Ortley had told him once, verbatim, when he'd been blathering on about the town's "good fortune". Admittedly, Olum did alright for itself. With the farms and the Fort's protection, it didn't need to pay off the gangs to leave it alone or strike up lopsided deals with the caravan merchants to put food on the table. The small town charm about the place helped set everyone at ease a little, too; the Fort, with its lumbering skyscrapers, or what was left of them, at any rate, had an entirely different aura about it. It was a place you could get lost in for days, and some did just that if they were on the run from raiders, slavers, or anyone else out there. Olum, on the other hand, was a town where everyone knew everyone; newcomers were treated with the barest degree of civility and a generous helping of suspicion, while old hands like him were practically part of the big, happy family that had grown up among its citizens.

A couple of people waved to him from their wraparound porches, others from the dirt farms that had been planted in the remains of lawns and flower gardens. He waved back, smiling a little at the sight of it all; it was the closest he'd ever gotten to seeing the Old World. Sure, the cars were all rusted beyond any hope, the homes were unwashed and half of them were run through with wood rot and termites, and the people themselves weren't any cleaner, but the community _worked_ , it stuck together while towns like Coesse and Busco and Hunterton got swallowed up by the wastes. Ortley himself was a pretty competent leader, keeping the riffraff out and keeping the good people from moving to the Fort or elsewhere for greener pastures. More than a few times, Mercer had been offered a house there at a reasonable price, even a steady job that would allow him to pay off the home in a few years and keep himself comfortable. He'd almost been tempted enough to take it, more than once, but he'd held out, telling himself that he'd come back for it, after he'd found what he was looking for. Explaining that reasoning to others, or trying to, never worked. People said that he had Old World Blues, simple as that; he earned his keep picking over the long-dead corpse of another world, of course he'd get nostalgic about it. Maybe there was some of the Blues in him, he wouldn't deny it, but there was something else, some drive above and beyond the general malaise and disillusionment with the world that all the men with the Blues had about them. He stopped at the intersection of Walnut and Van Buren, looking ahead at the looming brick facades of the storefronts along the main drag. People had gathered outside the Baptist church just ahead of him, yelling discontentedly at a man at the top of the stairs.

"No, no, you don't understand," he insisted in a slight Southern accent, "we have to keep our wits about us, that is the only way we'll convince him!"

"As if Ortley would even listen to us," another man shouted, raising his fist, "the old bastard's lucky we don't run him out for this!"

"Do you suppose this town could last one year without him?"

The man held his tongue, glowering at his feet.

"I thought not. People, if we are to have any kind of progress on this matter, we need to have order! You there, merchant!" He called, gesturing animatedly towards Mercer, who held up his hands and stepped backwards with a wry grin. Ahh, small town politics.

"Mercer, hey! You talk to Ortley all the time, tell him that-" one woman started before she was cut off by a tall, gruff man beside her.

"Tell Ortley that we're not going to let him take our food away from us! Tell him that we'll throw him in the prison if he doesn't change this deal he's made with the Fort!"

"Guys," Mercer started, struggling to sound unconcerned about the confrontation, "I just stopped in to sell off some salvage and rest for the night. If you really want, though, I'll tell Ortley that you're not happy with whatever he's doing. God knows it wouldn't be the first time he's had an angry mob after him."

A ripple of laughter spread through the crowd, easing tensions all around. The man at the center wiped the sweat off his brow and into his greasy hair, throwing Mercer a nervous grin and a nod of approval. With a few more snide comments about Ortley exchanged, the people eventually meandered off, apparently satisfied with Mercer's compromise and impromptu appointment as their spokesperson. The man with the Southern accent approached him as the last of the protesters wandered away, one hand extended in greeting and the other smoothing the wrinkles out of his cheap suit that was one size too big.

"I can't thank you enough, sir. Another few minutes and I believe the whole lot would have hauled me off to the stocks, perhaps as a prelude to Ortley. James Ambrose, at your service."

"Mercer," the aforementioned murmured as he shook Ambrose's hand, cringing slightly at how slick it was with sweat. "You don't need to thank me, though; I already know that Ortley expected this kind of backlash with, well...whatever it is he did. The man's smart, he knows how people tick. Sooner or later, whatever the people were so up in arms about will happen and they'll either pitch a fit again like they did today or they'll move out of town. Your best bet is to not be in the middle of them again, should they get all riled up later."

Ambrose laughed, a little too loudly and a little too long, and shook Mercer's hand with increased fervor before letting it drop and slicking back his hair once more.

"I'll have to keep that in mind, Mercer. Honestly, I was just at the church for some family records and happened to get mobbed by the people on my way out. I think they believed I was some kind of representative from the Fort and started asking all kinds of questions I didn't have the answers to; to save my own neck, I tried my best to arbitrate their woes, but it wasn't going well."

"I noticed. You from around here? Your accent says no."

"My accent would be correct, sir. I'm from Knoxville, but we had relatives who lived up here, before the War. I was trying to track down one of their gravestones to make an etching for back home."

Mercer looked further down Van Buren, not immediately registering Ambrose's reply, and saw a pair of brahmin hauling the chassis of a deuce coupe on makeshift wooden wheels; a man sat atop the rusted hardtop with a whip, calling out commands and laughing to himself, while another man slouched on the bench seat inside, reading a book. The trunk of the car had been propped open with a metal rod and was absolutely stuffed with all manner of parcels and bags, all held together by bungee cords to keep it from spilling out onto the cracked pavement behind it.

"Oh, I see, that's interesting. Say, I'll talk to you later, Ambrose. Try not to find yourself in the middle of any more angry mobs."

Ambrose laughed, again, too loudly and too long, and began to launch into a farewell when Mercer cut him short by jogging down the street to meet the brahmin cart. The man on top was oblivious to the trader, focusing more on driving the creatures under his whip forward, but the man in the back sat up as soon as Mercer stuck his head through the passenger window, putting his book aside with a stunned expression.

"Mercer, this is a surprise! I thought you were out by 'Ton! What's got you back in Olum so soon?"

"Couldn't get through to 'Ton, the whole interstate was a warzone just after Larwill. I spent the night there and turned back around."

"So you're available, then," the merchant asked eagerly. "We've got a-"

"Easy there, Pete," Mercer said with a chuckle, "I haven't even been in town ten minutes and already I've gotten offers to lead a revolution against Ortley for some deal he's made with the Fort. I think I'd better get a day or two to shake the dust off my feet before I head on out there again."

Pete scoffed.

"You've never been able to stay in one place for long, don't know why you're fooling yourself with this two days nonsense. Anyways, the pay's good, it's through a caravan company in the Fort. We've been taking contracts from them since April, they don't skimp. We leave town tomorrow night, just let me know when you're ready. Get some ammo, though, and a better weapon than... _that,"_ Pete groaned, nodding to the N99 poking out of Mercer's hip holster. "Duct tape, really? What, was it your first gun or something, you just keep it fixed up for sentimental reasons?"

"Old Jim sold it to me, if you can believe it, with the grips 'not standard'," Mercer grinned.

"I can believe it," Pete sighed, rolling his eyes. "He tried to stiff me on a delivery of Nuka-Cola last month, saying that it was flat and his customers didn't want to drink it warm. I told the smartass to go stick them in the fridge, and if it's flat, maybe he ought to fart in the bottles, that'd put some bubbles back into 'em."

The men laughed for a bit as the brahmin driver slowed the creatures to a stop just outside the (mostly intact) brick facade of the Grant Building. Pete leaned over to the driver's side door and reached out to give Mercer a tap on the arm.

"Hey, I've got some business to take care of, but I'll be at the Eagles Club later tonight," Pete noted, nodding behind him to the squat building across the street where a few men were milling around outside and smoking cigarettes. "I'll buy the drinks this time."

"Thanks," Mercer stammered with a warm smile, "not like you to be the one buying."

"Guess I just wanted to get even after all the rounds you've bought me," Pete replied, smiling back. For a moment, the men said nothing, then Pete shifted on the weathered fabric of the seat, the springs creaking with age. "Now get; you've got more important things to be doing than standing here jawing at me all day."

Mercer stepped away from the car as the brahmin driver rushed past him to get the trunk unloaded, smile still present. Pete winked at him as he stepped out of the car, then joined his companion at the rear of the cart, leaving the scavenger back to his wandering through downtown Olum. The clouds were still overhead, but starting to break up on the eastern horizon; if they kept it up, there'd be enough sky showing through in the west for a nice sunset. A gust of wind blew the tattered flag that hung from the Eagles Club rooftop, sending the Stars and Stripes into a flurry of movement for a brief moment that brought another smile to Mercer's face.

The American Dream.

He was getting closer, he was sure of it.


	2. Chapter 2

Mercer continued on from the Grant Building, across Line street, to the faded Victorian splendor of the Raupfer Building; the curved stone tower that overhung the cracked sidewalk was still intact, despite some 200 and some-odd years of normal age, and then the Big One, and then, well, everything that had happened after the War. It had been some kind of office building before the bombs, but at present it was run as a boarding house for the workers that came from the Fort to help with the water plant and the farms. The old couple that ran it were nice, the prices were fair, but they didn't really do short-term stays, more in the month-to-month kind of deal. Next door was the old government center, a massive fortress of a building with concrete decor still holding to the brick structure's facade despite no kind of maintenance since the War. It had been used, Ortley said, as the main center of operations for the Civil Defense in Whitley County, and most of the maps and such that he used to keep the Fort's caravans on track came from there. It was also where most of the refugees from the surrounding towns and farms went after the nukes, and thus, became a very spacious charnel house. No one scavenged there after Ortley had the Civil Defense paperwork recovered, and most of the locals gave it a wide berth.

Across the street was one of his destinations, the Nook. Unlike most of the commercial buildings in town, the diner continued to serve the same purpose that it had from its pre-War days. Grady and his son ran the place like a military operation, never wasting so much as a piece of Brahmin jerky if it could be absolutely avoided; the effect was that their prices were reasonable, even for Olum in its modest prosperity, but the food was still good. A sun-bleached sign in the plate glass window promoted "Coney Islands", which, judging by the old posters inside, was some kind of meat sausage you got in an oblong bread roll. It looked tasty, but honestly, Mercer had never understood why something so simple was being promoted as the main fare. At present, the Nook's menu was nothing like that of its Old World counterpart; while things like "Coney dogs" and "cheeseburgers" may have been possible back when society was intact, Brahmin meat and whatever varmints could be rustled up from the surrounding areas were the staples of the diner's meals. Occasionally, when the farmers in town had an especially good harvest, they'd sell whatever extra crops they had after the Fort took their cut to Grady and things like carrots and apples would show up on the menu. Otherwise, it was meat or bread, and not even stale bread, at that. Water was cheap, thanks entirely to the water plant that the guys from the Fort had built years prior; for a little bit more, you could get a cold bottle of Nuka-Cola (still flat, though), and if you were really well-off, you could get Grady to brew up a cup of coffee, provided they had any freeze-dried coffee on hand. Most of the regulars kept it simple, and Grady liked that well enough.

Surprisingly, though, there weren't any customers, regulars or otherwise, inside the Nook when Mercer stepped inside. Grady was behind the counter, wiping a drinking glass off with a rag that looked cleaner than its user and smoking a stogie that smelled like a mix between cheap whiskey and road tar. He looked up from the bar and grunted to the scavenger, the cherry at the end of his cigar glowing brighter, before returning to his work. That was the greeting only reserved for the regular customers, the ones who had been around for years. Otherwise, he didn't so much as acknowledge his patrons except to take their order and their payment after the meal. His son Buck, a stout kid in his 20s with a mop of messy black hair as opposed to his father's thinning mop of gray, comprised the customer service aspect of the Nook; he came out of the back of the restaurant wiping his hands on his apron, then shot Mercer a grin and hurried over to the counter, ducking past his father who barely sidestepped out of his way. The layout of the building had the lunch counter that ran down the center of the room, a row of stools on one side, the kitchen on the other, with maybe a few feet of width allowed for each. When the Nook got busy in the evenings, or when there was a big caravan in town, the two proprietors would be working on top of each other all but literally as they shuffled and pushed their way past one another in the narrow space between the counter and the kitchen equipment. Buck slid a pencil from behind his ear and whipped out an order pad from a fold in his apron, still grinning at Mercer.

"Heya, stranger. It's been a good little bit, hasn't it? What'll it be?"

"I'm a little light right now, just stopped in to do some trading, I'm thinking-"

"No tabs, don't matter who you are," Grady growled from his perch further down the counter. Buck rolled his eyes while Mercer chuckled softly.

"Hey, I'm not _that_ broke, you old buzzard. If I couldn't even afford lunch, you think I'd stop in here first?"

Grady said nothing, not even looking up from his work. Buck tapped the pencil against the order pad, waiting for Mercer.

"Anyways, I'll have whatever's cheap and on a stick today."

"You're in luck, actually. Miss Lucy over on Jefferson Street had a couple of chickens who got stepped on by one of Travis' brahmin, broke their necks in an instant. She sold 'em to us real cheap, on account of her not having any space for chicken meat in her fridge right now. So, you've got chicken bits, I'll let you have them for, oh..."

"Normal price," Grady grunted, looking up for once to glare at his son. "Last time I checked, we don't do discounts on chicken, unless you can start finding us a regular supply of it."

"Fine, fine," Buck shot back, turning away from his father and towards Mercer. "I'll give you a Nuka for the water price, though, if you want," he whispered, conspiratorially.

"Chicken bits sounds fine. What do I owe you?"

"One, and it'll be a half for the drink."

"Is he having a Nuka?" Grady sighed.

"What if I am?" Mercer retorted, amused by the banter.

The old man said nothing for a moment, letting the cherry glow and his paunch move with every asthmatic breath he took, but finally gave a small nod to Buck.

"Okay, ring him up for the water. But you better start spending more money in here, been too long since you came around to buy anything."

"I've been out of town, what was I going to do, have it delivered?" Mercer replied with a laugh.

Grady didn't respond, leaving the counter to sweep the back area. Buck snorted and shook his head as he wrote up the order for the scavenger.

"How long have you been coming here?"

"About ten years, give or take a couple."

"Yeah, okay. If it was anyone else, I think he'd tell you to go to hell and charge you extra for the Nuka. There aren't many people he gives discounts to, _any_ discounts, around here."

"I feel honored. Tell him I'll come back just as soon as I feel hungry again for some chicken bits."

Buck laughed and turned away from the counter, stowing the order pad in his apron as he approached the ancient Radiation King refrigerator. It was a sad old thing, paint peeling in big flaps from its rusted metal frame, and Mercer had been around more than once when the compressor went out and Grady had use a combination of hammer blows and generous amounts of profanity to get it running again. Nevertheless, it kept the food stock cool, for the most part; just to be on the safe side, Buck stuck his head in the fridge for a moment and smelled the chicken before tossing it onto a cutting board and making short work of it. The meat bits went into a cast-iron skillet that was, to put it mildly, very well seasoned. That, in turn, was placed on the corresponding Radiation King stove which he had to take his Zippo to just to get the burners going. Soon, though, the smell and sound of chicken crackling in oil filled the small diner. Buck cracked open a bottle of Nuka-Cola from the fridge with his churchkey and set it in front of Mercer, who took a couple of sips and exhaled.

"Ooh, that's good stuff. Maybe it's flatter than some of the girls at the Central, but the flavor's still there."

Buck snorted.

"Hey, I hear the girls at the Central have plenty of flavor, too."

"Oh no, kid," Mercer retorted with a grin, "those are the ones that'll have you going to the doc the week after. I'll keep the flavor to my food and drinks, thanks." Mercer sipped his Nuka again, exhaling once more with delight. "How's your dad doing?"

"Those damn stogies are killing him. He talked to Doc Dulles about it, after I made him, and the doc told him to stop. Yeah, well, that obviously hasn't taken root." He stopped, letting the sound of the crackling chicken fill the silence, and spoke again in a quieter voice. "He's been coughing a lot more, at night, you know. I don't know how much longer he's got."

Mercer rested his elbows on the chipped Formica countertop and interlaced his fingers, sighing again, but not from the cola.

"I get what you mean, kid. Hey," he started, quiet himself, causing Buck to turn halfway from the stove to look back at him. "Your dad might be a real hardass, and the diner here keeps you both busy, but try to spend time with him. You got him to go to Dulles, right? Just do whatever you did for that, but for the whole day. Go to the Eagles Club, or the Central, or even take him to the Fort. Just...get to know him better, you know?"

"Yeah. I've been trying to get something together, I just haven't found the time." He pulled a plate out of a cabinet next to the stove and slid the chicken bits onto it before placing it before Mercer. "Soup's on."

"Thanks, Buck. Hang in there. Your dad's a tough old cuss. He'll be around for a while longer."

"Sure...thanks," Buck replied, with a slight smile, before slowly turning back to the stove and cleaning up. Mercer dug into the chicken bits and polished them off in a few short minutes, then fished into his pack and pulled out a few pieces of metal which he placed on the counter. Each one was about two inches in length, an inch wide, and maybe a centimeter thick. On one side of each was stamped:

 **1 Fort Dollar**

 **1 oz. .900 Fine Silver**

 **Legal Tender By Law**

On the other side of each metal bar was a serial number of various letters and numbers, stamped into the metal much as the lettering on the front was. Mercer checked his pocket again, then sifted through the bars he had already retrieved in a huff. Buck came back and pressed a couple of buttons on the battered cash register sitting on the counter; it emitted a loud ring and the drawer popped out, nearly jabbing Buck in the stomach.

"Out of halves, huh? Well, I could always just charge you normal price for the Nuka," he quipped as he took the two bars Mercer handed him, dropping them with a heavy _clank_ in the cash drawer before retrieving a half of a bar and handing it to the scavenger. "Come back soon, okay?"

"Sure, kid," Mercer replied with a grin, pocketing the half bar and shouldering the pack he had rested on the stool next to him.

Outside, the daylight had begun to break through the receding cloud cover and was bathing the main street in an amber late afternoon light. There were a few more people out on the streets, mostly Fort workers who were coming in from the water plant and the other projects around town, nobody he knew. The street led past a few more historic buildings to his next destination, a small, unassuming storefront that was sandwiched between two larger ones. A old neon sign, long since burned out, advertised "rare coins and bullion" above the cracked glass door that Mercer swung open. The inside of the store was dimly-lit and musty, the carpet well into an advanced stage of decomposition. Old display cases, most of them with their glass totally obliterated, ran around the three interior walls away from the entrance. A small door with a tattered curtain hung over it led to the back of the shop. An older man, balding and pudgy, with a crooked pair of pince-nez gripping his aquiline nose, was sitting behind the counter to the right of the entrance. Attired in a more-or-less white dress shirt and a disheveled argyle sweater vest, he was a lot better-dressed than most of the people Mercer had seen thus far. He looked up from a book he was reading and smiled at his sole customer.

"Mercer," the man exclaimed in a gentle voice, "what a surprise! I hadn't expected you for a couple of weeks. What brings you back so soon?"

"There was a firefight going on 30 outside Larwill, couldn't get to 'Ton so I doubled back. I got a few things for you, Art, if you're interested."

"Of course, of course," he replied, gesturing to a display case that hadn't been smashed. He tucked his hand under his vest and produced a jeweler's loupe fastened to a thin chain around his neck, rubbing the glass eyepieces on his shirtsleeve to clean them up. "Let's see what you've got."

Mercer fished into a small satchel tied to his belt and pulled out several coins, which he placed on the display case. Arthur gripped one by the rim and held it close to his face, looking at it through the loupe. After turning it over a few times, he set it back down and checked the next, repeating the routine until all the coins were finished.

"Well, you've got a 1905 Barber dime, fairly good shape, probably part of someone's pre-War collection. That's going to fetch you the most, I can do a half for that by itself. Everything else is a lot newer. These," Art said, pushing a small pile he had made of some of Mercer's finds, "are a lot more recent, much closer to the War. I can't really give you anything for them, you could find them anywhere, really. Metal's not worth much, either; they were mostly just made for payphones and Nuka machines, no real intrinsic value. Otherwise, I see a 1937 buffalo nickel, pretty worn, and a few wheat pennies, from the '40s, the 1940s, I mean. Those I can give you another half for. The last thing here looks like it was a peace dollar, once. The silver's good, but the coin's pretty shot, too worn to really make anything out. Honestly, I'd probably hold onto that, see if you can't trade it in the next time you're at the Fort."

"So, I can get a bar, that's it?"

"Unless you have anything else, yes."

"What about these?" Mercer inquired, pulling a roll of bills out of a small pouch elsewhere on his belt and setting them on the counter. Art exhaled, flipped through them, and made a few piles out of the banknotes he pulled off the roll. After about five minutes, he had three piles.

"These," he said, gesturing to the first pile, "are pre-War, you can tell by all the extra zeroes. Totally worthless except for the paper they're printed on, common as dirt. These," Art continued as he pointed to the second stack, "are probably from the late 20th century, much harder to find. I'll give you a dollar for those. These, now," he noted with a slight pause, 'these...I'm wondering, where'd you get all these, were they in the same place?"

"Pretty much, yeah. An old shoebox under a bed."

"That makes sense. These are silver certificates, old, early 20th century. I'll give you one and a half for these."

"Just one and a half?" Mercer inquired, pulling the third stack closer to him; the awe in Art's voice was subtle, but it was there. The old man chuckled and dropped his head.

"You're killing me here, Mercer. Alright, alright, two, but that's it."

Mercer extended his hand across the counter, which Art gripped and shook firmly before taking the bills and the coins over to the cash register; he pulled out four bars, handed them to his patron, and put the latest acquisitions into a small lockbox he had under the counter. The scavenger tucked the rejects into his pocket, to dispose of later. Their business concluded, Art picked up his book and resumed his spot at the counter, but not before he tossed one last question at Mercer's back.

"Have you seen Laura yet?"

The inquiry caused the man to stop in his tracks, his back still to Arthur. For a moment, he was silent, staring straight through the spiderweb cracks in the glass door to the street outside. He spoke in a low voice, not looking behind him.

"Not yet. Has she been asking about me?"

"She's come in here a couple of times, sure. I think she's visited all the traders in town. You, ah...might want to say something to her before you head out again. I don't think she'd take kindly to finding out that you were through here without stopping by and seeing her."

"Okay, Art. Thanks for the heads up."

"Anytime, son. She's not as mad at you as you think she is. I think, more than anything, she just wants to talk about Luke, about the boy's future."

"I'm sure. I'll see her tonight, before I head out," Mercer murmured, finally turning around to face Art; the old man looked a bit concerned, in a fatherly sort of way. "See you later, Art."

"Happy trails, Mercer."

He stepped outside and shuffled his way to the next intersection, where an ancient car crash had been preserved for all passers-by to see; two rusting hulks sat in the middle of the road, bumpers barely hanging on and rims sitting bare in the wheel wells. One of them was a Chryslus Highwayman, the car that "nothing could stop" according to the faded posters and billboards found around the wasteland; another car, not a Chryslus, some foreign brand, had put that marketing slogan to shame, stopping the Highwayman quite effectively. There were little shards of glass spread out across the rusted metal of the dash, the steering wheel of the Highwayman practically snapped off the steering column by the force of the impact, with time helping the process, no doubt. The bench seats were utterly obliterated; little pieces of fabric hung on resolutely to the metal frame and fluttered in the breeze that whispered through the smashed-out rear window, but otherwise the seats had decayed into a horrifying array of rusted springs and metal bits that stuck out at all angles. The instrument panel, all analog, had lost most of the glass in its gauges and most of the indicator needles had been lost to time and wear, but the fuel gauge still read a quarter tank, not that there would be any charge left in the ancient V8 that was peeking out through the crumpled hood. Mercer took a final look at the scene and moved on, heading south to the town square.

The courthouse was Ortley's lair, and it wasn't hard to see why the man had chosen such a building for his base of operations. Where the Government Center had been a massive, utilitarian thing, the Courthouse was a castle, straight out of a fantasy book. White marble that Ortley actually kept white, thanks to the town water plant and plenty of cleaning products on hand, huge columns and picture windows that adorned the outside, pointed roof turrets at all angles, sculptures set into the cornices, and to top it all off, a big green dome sitting atop the center of the building with a clock (long since stopped) looking out over the town like a silent sentry. The grounds around it had once been a gorgeous town green, complete with gazebo (which, at present, was a concrete foundation sticking out of the ground with wood splinters where the support posts had once been) and beautiful, sweeping elm trees. These days, messy dirt had replaced the grass and the trees were wooden husks gripping the dead earth, but the building's presence alone made the whole space seem a little more alive than the other dead bits of nature around town. A couple of guards were patrolling casually around and making small talk with each other, their guns slung over their shoulders. One of them caught sight of Mercer and waved him over, and he did so.

"What's the news, fellas?"

"You going to be in town for a bit? Ortley was hoping to speak with you."

"Yeah, I've been getting that treatment a lot. What's on his mind?"

"Dunno, some new trade deal with the Fort. He heard that you had broken up a protest or somesuch down at the church, was hoping you'd come and see him. Don't worry about checking your gear, you're fine."

"Thanks, I'll be right up," Mercer replied, faking a grin. He hadn't really wanted to see Ortley just yet, but with his guards now aware that Mercer was back in town, there was a little more pressure than etiquette at stake. He approached the massive staircase that led to the courthouse entrance, walked through the double doors, and took a deep breath. Despite everything, Ortley wasn't even the person he was dreading the most; Laura still held that distinction.

Better to slay one mutant at a time, though, right?


	3. Chapter 3

Ortley was upstairs in one of the offices, the downstairs courtroom mostly used for town hall meetings, when Mercer was escorted up to him. He was an older man, a little older than Art, even, with wispy white hair that was thin on the top of his head and tapered down into short muttonchops towards his cheeks, piercing cyan eyes that looked like they would start watering any moment, and a perpetual scowl that made him look a bit like he'd just taken a bite out of a whole lemon. He was attired in his usual "business hours" wear: a black three-piece suit of a conservative cut that fit him well, black shoes that had a little bit of shine to them, and a gold pocket watch that was strung across his vest and peeked out from behind the open suit jacket. He was poring over a few documents spread out over a reading table when the door opened and a guard announced Mercer's arrival, followed immediately by the man himself. Ortley smiled wide and approached, clapping the scavenger on the back.

"Thanks for arriving so quickly. I only got word twenty minutes ago that you were back in town, apparently stirring up mobs against me. Want to tell me what all that was about at the church?"

The guard took his leave, closing the door behind him, as Mercer dropped his pack on the nearest chair and stretched his arms with a grunt. His dirty boots caused the parquet floor beneath him to creak with every footstep, and as he looked around in the dusty room, he noticed that Ortley had removed the paintings of the pre-War politicians and judges from the mahogany-paneled walls since their last meeting.

"Doing some redecorating in here?"

"Hm? Oh, the paintings? I had them put into storage. Not like anyone even remembers who those people are, anyways."

"Do you plan on having ones of yourself made to hang in their places?"

Ortley laughed.

"I've got better things to do with my time. Frankly, I got tired of the damned things, too creepy for my liking. I'd be working on something, look up, and see someone glaring down at me, nearly gave me a heart attack the first time it happened. Since then, I've been only too eager to get them out of here. Coffee?" He offered, swiftly maneuvering around Mercer and grabbing a couple of cups off the large wooden desk at the back of the room.

"No thanks, I just came from the Nook. As to your talk about stirring things up, I expect the only person who I'll be doing _that_ to is going to be Laura."

"She knows your back in town already? We don't need another lover's spat on-"

"No, she doesn't, and I plan to keep it that way," Mercer interjected, sternly. After a hurt pause, he continued, "anyways, I didn't come here to get in a fight with her, I came to sell off some salvage and be on my way. I was hoping to stay out of all that stuff with, who was it...Rose? Ambrose? The out-of-towner, whoever he is. Bad suit, greasy hair. Laughs too much."

"Ambrose? _He_ was behind the protest at the church? Interesting," Ortley mused, stroking his chin while standing behind the desk.

Behind him, a large picture window arched across the entire wall, letting in a half-moon-shaped spot of light on the office's floor. Heavy velvet curtains, a little moth-eaten but plenty musty, hung forgotten on either side of it; water might have been the rarest commodity in a lot of the wasteland, especially on the farms out in the sticks, but in Olum, power was the coveted resource. Windows stayed open during the day whenever possible, both for the light and for the ventilation; at night, only places which made enough money to pay for the power could have lights on, like the Central, the Eagles Club, and the Nook. As the more-or-less official town leader, Ortley could have easily insisted on having electricity allotted for the courthouse, but he steadfastly refused the luxury on the grounds that the government worked on a 9-5 schedule. It was one of many reasons Mercer admired the man, even if he'd never admit it openly; unlike so many of the "leaders" in the wastes, Ortley had never abused his power.

"I wouldn't say he was really behind it so much as he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. From what he told me, by the time he was leaving the church, the protesters had already gathered outside. The guy's a little weird, but he seems harmless."

"I concur, hence my surprise. Well, if Ambrose wasn't behind it, do you know who was?"

"No clue. I really didn't even want to get involved, but most of the folks there knew me well enough to call me over and try to get my take on it. I just said that I'd have a word with you, that it'd hardly be the first time that you've dealt with angry mobs in this town."

Ortley snickered and seated himself on the wingback chair behind the desk, resting his scuffed patent leather shoes on the ink blotter.

"I bet they got a kick out of that, though Lord knows it's true. I'm guessing they didn't tell you what's going on?"

"Just that there's some deal with the Fort about your food, you raised the rates."

"Alright...you might want to sit down, Mercer. This is going to take a bit."

Mercer sidled up to the desk and sat down on a corner, crossing his arms over his chest. Ortley killed the last of the coffee in one of the mugs he had offered the scavenger earlier, tossing it back down with a loud clatter, then cleared his throat before speaking in a low voice.

"I know everyone thinks I was the one who came up with the new number, but it was the people from the Fort, the whole thing was their idea. They came to me about a little over a week ago and said that they needed more supplies. I countered that the supplies we had been sending was more than enough, they said that things had changed. They didn't say anything at the time, but I heard from one of the merchants who came from that direction a few days later, they've got something big going on at Purdue, but nobody's saying anything, or knows anything, seems like. You know that surplus they were bragging about last season, the one that was going to ensure that there wouldn't be any shortages in the next four years? All gone, every bit of it. People aren't just going without fuel and power, now they're saying that the Fort's almost out of food and water. The guys who came to me were scared, first time I'd ever seen them like that, and they were actually asking for a much higher number. The one everyone's pitching a fit about was the number that I managed to negotiate the Fort guys down to, but, really, if things don't change with Purdue, they'll end up pushing us to give that much sooner or later."

"So that's the plan? Just talk them down?"

"They've got the guns, Mercer, and the water, and the money. We may grow their food, but it'd take a force of maybe 100 men with their level of equipment and training, which they could round up with only a little trouble, to drive the whole lot of us out into the wasteland. Tell the starving masses on the streets of the Fort that they could live in our houses, tend our fields, take over our lives, and they'd be pounding down our gates. I know it's not much of a plan, but it's kept the peace so far. That's why I haven't let this out, because if everyone knew how much the Fort was trying to bilk us for, they'd be yelling for a revolution. At least this way, people can think I'm the bad guy and keep things running."

Mercer took a deep breath and nodded slowly before he replied, his voice quiet.

"Can you keep things running at the number you negotiated?"

Ortley looked down at his hands, which were fidgeting a little over the desk; he had since moved out of a reclining position and was sitting upright in his seat.

"For now. I've run the numbers, with what I could compile from last year's harvest, and we'll scrape by. Winter's going to be coming though, and I can guarantee you that we'll lose a couple of people at least. As it is, even without this negotiated rate, we were going to be in for a hard season; there's been a few diseases that killed off a lot of crops a few months back." He paused, looking over at the cracked globe that sat unused on the edge of his desk, before sighing and speaking again. "When they raise the rate again, and they _will_ raise the rate again, we'll be looking at a dozen, maybe two, dying off, over the course of the year following. The year after? Fifty. It goes downhill from there."

The quiet ticking of Ortley's pocket watch punctuated the silence that hung heavy between the men in the musty office, counting off the minutes as both of them brooded over the state of the town. Finally, a knock at the door caused the men to stir; one of Ortley's guards stuck his head in and said that they would be off their shift in ten minutes, to whom the older man wished them a good night. After the guard had closed the door behind him, Mercer stood up from the desk with a quiet grunt.

"Well, what do you want me to say to people?"

"Keep this to yourself and play along with their anger. Call me a tightwad, say you've given me a stern lecture in wasteland economics, just don't bring the Fort's involvement into this. Sooner or later, they'll find out about the situation over there and the clever ones will put two and two together, deduce that maybe I'm not in control as much as they think I am. For now, though, we can keep up the story that this is my doing, avoid a panic." He paused for a moment, gathering up some papers into a battered attache case, then looked at Mercer thoughtfully. "Do you still plan on seeing Laura?"

"Christ, that's really on everyone's mind today, isn't it?" Mercer spat out, throwing up his hands. "I guess I'd better, hadn't I? If I don't, I think the whole town will raise up against me."

"It doesn't make any difference to me if you two make nice or not, but I was going to say, you'd better hurry if you want to chat; she goes on stage at the Central at 5."

"So I'll run across the street, what's the rush?"

Ortley grinned.

"This _is_ the Central we're talking about, you know. As far as I've heard, it's been standing room only for the past several months, ever since those boys from the Fort came into town to build the water plant."

Mercer groaned as he slid his pack back over his shoulders.

"Fine, I'll go, unless you had something else to lecture me about?"

Ortley thought for a moment, his lips pursed in their trademark sourpuss pucker, before speaking up at Mercer's back.

"If you're going to be in town for a few days, keep an eye on that Ambrose character. I know how the locals get about outsiders, but the guy's strange, I don't trust him. Like you said, probably harmless, but I'd like to elevate that probably to a definitely."

"I'll see what I can do," Mercer mumbled, half-heartedly, pushing through the French doors and out into the hallway.

A few twists and turns, a staircase or two, and he was standing outside once more. Sure enough, Ortley's guards hadn't wasted any time knocking off for the day; both of the men he had seen patrolling the grounds were pushing and yelling at the massive throng of men gathered at the doorway of a building south of the courthouse. The building stood three stories high, with a facade of dirty sandstone and plenty of rounded windows set into the front. Above the third floor windows, just under the ornamental Victorian cornice, was the sign:

 **Central Building**

A long time ago, back before the world had been ravaged by atomic fire, the Central had probably been an office building, much like the Raupfer Building, with miscellaneous stores set up on the ground floor. About nine or ten years ago, just a little bit after Mercer had started passing through Olum, a woman had arrived on a brahmin caravan with a number of girls with her and a fair bit of muscle. She'd talked to Brownell, Ortley's predecessor, and convinced him to sell her the Central for a song. Considering Brownell's reputation and Miss Ruby's first "wares" on offer after setting up shop, it wasn't hard to figure out how the negotiations had gone. What started as a two-bit bar and "hotel" set up in one of the dilapidated stores had grown with every trading season and influx of business into what the Central was at present: three stories of drinking, music, and women, with an actual hotel that rented rooms at both hourly and daily rates. Every day, from around 5 in the afternoon to 2 in the morning, when the generators got shut down for everything but the searchlights and the town gates, just about every man in town (and some of the women) stopped by at one point or another. Mercer himself preferred the drinks at the Eagles Club, and after he and Laura had become an item, he hadn't seen any of Miss Ruby's girls; after he had stopped seeing Laura, he had avoided the building for good measure. The music, too, wasn't what he was into; for a time, they had played pre-War tracks on an old jukebox jury-rigged to speakers that some wasteland engineer had rigged up as a favor. As word spread around, though, musicians began playing music at the Central, until the jukebox was disconnected and shoved into a closet in favor of the live performances. They had kept the speakers though, from the sound of the booming baseline that was filtering out of the building, audible to Mercer even from his spot across the street.

Putting his very healthy sense of hesitation aside for the moment, telling himself that he probably wouldn't even see her with the way the crowd was growing, Mercer crossed the street and stood at the back of the disorganized queue. Brandt, one of Miss Ruby's long-time bouncers, was leaning against the wall by the front entrance; he was a scary-looking bruiser, standing 6'3" of rippling muscle and scars. He wore an old Army jacket that barely fit over his broad chest, a pair of faded denim jeans, and, new to Mercer, an eyepatch over his left eye. He cocked his head to one side, leaning to get a better look at the back of the line, and gestured for Mercer to come forward. Several of the guys in line glared holes in the scavenger's back as he pushed his way forward to the door, where Brandt looked him up and down.

"You look old, Mercer."

"And you look ugly, Brandt. Where'd you pick up the eyepatch?"

"Trader last month got a little too excited with one of the girls, pulled a knife on me when I broke it up. Wasn't too bad, Doc Dulles says that in another month I'll be able to see again."

"Lucky guy. So, you going to let me in, or did you just call me up for a chat?"

"Head on in. Laura's not performing tonight, she's in the back. Talk to Needle and he'll show you in."

Mercer's face fell.

"Who said I was here for Laura?"

"Laura did. She said the next time I see you, I gotta tell you to go talk to her. She had plenty of other things for me to call you, but you're a nice guy Mercer and you didn't do nothing to deserve that kind of language. Watch out for Ruby tonight, she's in a mood."

Mercer clapped Brandt on one of his meaty shoulders and sighed.

"Thanks, buddy. I'll be careful. Try not to catch any more knives with your face."

The bouncer pounded three times on the makeshift metal door, scowling at whoever opened the viewport from within, and extended his arm to keep any stragglers from crowding in past Mercer as he walked into the club. Everything was lit in a garish shade of red; buzzing lightbulbs had been strung across the ceiling of the building, with red fabric covers hung around them. Mismatched chairs, tables, and barstools were scattered all across the place, with a makeshift stage made out of old military crates facing out from the left, settled in the remains of a shop that had been next door to the Central before Ruby had the entrance sealed and the side wall leveled. Against the rightmost wall was a real bar, made of wood no less, with bartenders rushing back and forth to fill orders and keep drinks topped off. In the middle, atop peeling linoleum that was divided up in a few places by indentations where walls had once stood, was where the bulk of the club's patrons were gathered, cheering and shouting. At the back of the room, flanked by bouncers just as imposing as Brandt, was where Ruby where made her real money; another stage, more sturdy than the one for the musical acts, had a few poles bolted to the wooden surface and the ceiling. It was empty for the moment, but the crowd had already gathered in eager anticipation. Along the back wall were a pair of doors, one for each side of the room, which had men standing directly before them.

People bumped and jostled him from the entrance as they rushed to the stage and the bar, and as if it couldn't get any more unwelcoming to him, a band got up on the makeshift stage and began to play loud rock music, to the crowd's delight and Mercer's frustration. Looking to get out of the bar as soon as possible, he wormed his way through the sitting area, his eyes locked on the door set in the left side of the back wall. He got about halfway there when he collided with another man, toppling over and sending a table on its side with a loud crash. Lying on his stomach, the stench of stale alcohol choking him and the droning beat of the band in his ears, he struggled to get to his feet when a fist drove right into his ear, smacking his forehead against the floor. His head was swimming, his ears ringing, and a sharp pain was already crawling into his neck and jaw. More out of instinct than any tactical decision, he raised his arm to protect his head as he tried to get to his knees, when a boot jabbed him in the kidneys, causing him to roll across the filthy floor and taking a couple more tables and chairs with him. He cried out and muttered a curse that was lost in the din of the music, his eyes struggling to focus in the flurry of movement around him. A face, colored an unnatural pink by the glow of the lamps, was snarling at him in the crowd, drawing closer, causing Mercer to scramble to his feet and back up from the approaching assailant. People were yelling and jeering at the sight of the brawl, laying bets on who would win, when one of the bouncers ran over, putting his hands up between the two men. The guy who had hit him glared at the guard, then grabbed a beer bottle off of a table and raised it up to smash the bouncer's head, but never landed the blow; a swift punch in the stomach by his intended target had him doubled up on the floor in a matter of seconds. Ruby's employee lifted the moaning man from the ground and, calling out for the crowd to clear out, dragged him away to the entrance. Mercer winced as he put a hand over his side, which was still hurting like crazy from the kick in the guts, and fell back into a chair to rest.

Another bouncer came up, one who bore an uncanny resemblance to Brandt minus the eyepatch, and started to speak, although the crowd and the band reduced his conversation to an exercise in lip-reading.

 _You okay, Mercer?_

 _Bastard hit me good in the side, I feel like I'm gonna puke._

 _He won't be coming in here again, that's for sure. Take a few, catch your breath. Need to go in the back?_

 _Yeah, I just came,_ he paused, wincing against the pain once more, _to see Laura. Thanks,_ he managed as Brandt's brother scooped him up and wrapped a massive arm over his shoulder, walking with him to the back door. They pushed through it, Needle signalling for another guard to take his spot in the main room, and the bouncer guided Mercer over to a worn-out sofa, where he dropped down, sending up a cloud of dust and a creak of protest from the couch's springs. With a brick wall and a metal door between them and the music, it was easier to hear each other. His head was still throbbing from the noise and the blow to the ear, but he was slowly regaining his strength. He closed his eyes and concentrated on breathing in, breathing out, until his head stopped spinning; after a few minutes, he lifted himself to his feet, a hand at his side and his eyes blinking against the gloom in the back. A single flickering lightbulb, minus the red cover, illuminated the narrow space behind the main room, casting light at odd intervals over the old storage crates, broken chairs, and assortment of junk that filled up the narrow corridor which they were in. Around the corner, towards the building where the stage had been built in, was a staircase that snaked its way upstairs, clearly built after the War; it still looked sturdy enough to hold him and Needle, despite its mishmash of building materials and slapdash construction.

"You ready to see Laura?" The hulking man asked, cracking his knuckles.

His head was thumping from a combination of the music and the blow he had taken to the ear, his guts were still churning and threatening to eject the chicken bits and cola from lunch, and he was about to go talk to the one woman who had managed to scare him more than any raider or radiation storm could. Yeah, he was ready, chomping at the bit, even.

"Yeah, sure," Mercer groaned, rising from the couch.


	4. Chapter 4

Needle and Mercer climbed up the makeshift staircase to the third floor, bypassing the second floor entirely. The wall separating the old store from the Central Building had been torn out, allowing them access to the central corridor that was flanked by rooms. on either side. From the floorboards beneath them, the sound of "business" being conducted on the second floor sometimes filtered up to them; Miss Ruby's girls may not have been performing downstairs when Mercer came in, but they were earning their proprietress money nonetheless. Beyond them, standing at door that was slightly ajar, was an older woman, about 5'4" with reddish hair that was gracefully turning grey; she was dressed in a flowing crimson dress that, unusual for the wasteland, was fairly clean and without rips or holes. She had accessorized the dress with a pair of white satin gloves, laced up to her elbows, and an ivory boa that had been draped over her shoulders. She wore just enough makeup to accentuate the upper-class look of her upturned nose and sharp cheeks without looking gaudy or like she was trying to hide her age. The woman was laughing jovially at something said by the unseen party behind the door, touching her boa gently as she did so, when she caught sight of the two men approaching her and politely excused herself in a faint, yet warm, southern accent.

"Needle, didn't I tell you to guard the door downstairs? And Mercer, for shame! Coming up here looking like that, what happened to you, darling?"

"I got into a fight, it-"

"Starting fights, at _my_ club? That's hardly any way to act, now is it?"

"He didn't start it," Needle cut in, raising one of his massive hands to bring Ruby's attention to him, "it was that same guy again from last week."

Miss Ruby put both gloved hands on her hips, further accentuating her waspish figure, and huffed.

"Well, I hope you threw him out. Behavior like that is bad for business. Sit, Mercer, sit, sit, no, _sit_ ," she fussed as the scavenger tried to protest, "I'll not have you walking around looking like you could heave up your dinner at any moment." After a pause to look the man over, as he finally complied and sat down on a nearby chair, she turned to Needle. "You _did_ throw him out, though, correct?"

"We did, yeah. He won't be back, Brandt already knows what happened."

"Well, we'll do more than that. He still owes us on his tab. But that's for another time, you go downstairs now. Shoo! This man needs a woman's touch, not your big, clumsy hands," she chirped as she fetched a lace handkerchief from somewhere Mercer hadn't noticed and began dabbing at the sweat dotting his brow. Needle coughed loudly to stifle a chuckle as he made his way to the stairs, before turning back at the last moment.

"Just knock three times when you're ready to go back out to the main room, I'll let you out."

"Thanks," Mercer managed, turning his head sharply to avoid getting smothered by Ruby's boa. "Easy with that, will ya?"

"Oh, quit fussing you big baby. Here, you sit right here and I _mean_ that, and I'll go get something for that cut."

"Cut?" Mercer mumbled to himself, gently touching his forehead and jumping a little when his fingers came back red. "I didn't even feel it. Must have been when he knocked my face into the floor."

Miss Ruby chastised him from her office at the other end of the hall, but he didn't make out what she said over the sound of one of her customers concluding his transaction below. There was a muffled exchange of dialogue, then the sound of a door closing soon after, and another, louder, as Miss Ruby returned with a bottle of water.

"Been a busy night tonight, most of the guards got their pay. At this rate, there won't be enough of the ladies on shift to even do a floor show until seven o'clock, and you better believe the boys downstairs won't like that one bit. But, they can wait; I told the bar to do a third off all the drink prices, to keep the crowd occupied. Now, you drink this," she continued, not missing a beat as she wrapped his hands around the bottle, emptying a little of its contents onto her handkerchief and dabbing the cool, damp linen at his forehead, "and quit squirming around so much, it's not like you haven't been through worse."

As Mercer chugged the water, the cool, refreshing liquid helping his nausea calm down, he couldn't help but smile just a little bit. Say what you would about Ruby, and most of the womenfolk in town had plenty to say in that department, but she was a shrewd businesswoman. Fair, too, which he always respected about her; when Laura had first started working for the Central, Ruby had always worked with her, never had her on the second floor if she didn't want to be (and she didn't), and Laura made good pay, too. Most of the cathouses in the wasteland, whether run by men or women, were money traps for the girls; most were lucky to tuck away any kind of savings after room and board, and whatever other charges the owner decided to drum up. He may not have had any need for her services, _any_ of them, but he had to admit, she had a solid reputation among most of the town, and she'd more than earned it. With the motherly attention finally concluded, his wound cleaned and sporting a new adhesive bandage that the madame had grabbed from her office, she stepped back and admired her handiwork, before launching into another monologue.

"Now that we've got _that_ settled, I guess we'd better talk about why you're here."

"Don't play coy, you know why-"

"I do, but you need to hear me out, so don't go rushing off half-cocked." Ruby paused to brush her feathery hair out of her eyes, sighing dramatically as she did so. "Laura's had a bad time lately. She needs a father for Luke, and if you came to talk to her about that, I sure hope you plan on doing something to provide for the boy. I've seen enough of my girls, the working ones, I mean, left with kids and no father to help raise them. Laura's been lucky, not just with you sticking around Olum and kicking something over every now and then to help with the boy, but come on, Mercer. You know he needs more than just food, he needs a _father_."

Mercer grunted, unimpressed.

"My dad bought it when I was a little kid, and last time I checked, Luke didn't grow up when I did. Hell, you'd know better than anyone how difficult it was to transition-"

"Yes, yes," Ruby cut him off, exasperatedly, with frantic waves of her gloved hands. "I get what you mean, he's never known anything else. That's not the point, Mercer. You know the boy won't make it out there when he gets older, without a father raising him now. So, before you say anything to Laura, you'd better run it by me first."

Mercer threw up his hands.

"I don't know what I'm going to say! I didn't even plan on coming here, at first," he protested, ignoring Ruby's incensed snuff at the comment, "but Art, even Ortley, for God's sake, everyone I've talked to has been telling me to come talk to her. I was just passing through to sell some salvage and head on out again."

Ruby glared at him, her arms crossed over her chest. A woman stuck her head out of the door the madame had been at a few minutes ago, asked something that Mercer didn't catch, and got a frustrated "Yes, darling" in response. The door closed again, quietly, as the two in the hallway continued to stare holes in one another.

"Well," Ruby finally said, arms still over her chest, "I sincerely hope you come to your senses, sooner, rather than later, and act like a man, both to your woman and to your child. Lord knows she tried to settle you back in the day, but you're one of the stubbornest old bulls I've ever met."

"Yeah, sure, Ruby. Am I cleared?"

Ruby swept her arms dramatically towards a closed door on the other side of the corridor.

"But of course, Lord Mercer. Anything for you."

The scavenger rolled his eyes, hard, and stood up from the seat, shouldering the backpack that, miraculously, had stayed closed throughout his sojourn through the bar. Approaching the door sent the hairs on the back of his neck ramrod straight, his nerves quivering as he grasped the handle. For a moment, he hesitated, looking back at Ruby, who was back to pouting at him.

"Well, don't just stand there, boy! It ain't going to open itself."

"Yeah, yeah," he managed, voice shaking only a little. "Crazy old biddy," he murmured, under his breath; Ruby didn't react to the jab, therefore, Ruby hadn't heard it.

The handle felt cold and unwelcoming under his hand, while the bar had felt uncomfortably warm from the gathered bodies in close proximity, almost feverish. He wished he was downstairs, in the noise and the grime and the chaos and the drunken shouting. He wished he was wandering 30, staring at advertisements for a world long dead. He wished he was this was a dream, that he could jar himself awake and find himself far, far away from this whole mess. Instead, he found himself twisting the knob, slowly, painfully, like twisting a knife in an old wound, and pushing the wooden door inwards with a soft _creak_. He stepped inside the room, decently lit by a single bulb, not flickering, not covered in red fabric.

A woman, a little younger than him, was sitting at a vanity with a cracked mirror, across from him. She wore a navy blue cocktail dress that exposed her back down to about the midriff level, showing skin with a bit of tan; her hair, beige and rolling in soft curls, was tied into a loose ponytail that flayed out between her shoulder blades. Looking in the mirror, Mercer could see her pale jade eyes locked on him, a scowl creasing her round, almost childlike, face. The scavenger shut the door behind him, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his stained cargo pants, and waited. The woman, who had been holding a silver-plated hairbrush in her hand when he entered, continued tending to her hair, still glowering at him as she did so. After a few moments, she patted her head gently and set the brush down, then folded her hands in her lap. Mercer's skin crawled and he shuffled uncomfortably at the doorway.

"Do you-" he started, quietly, finally breaking eye contact to fixate on a chair sitting against the left side of the room.

"The bed is fine," she replied, flatly, still watching him.

The scavenger plodded over to the bed, dressed in clean linens (Miss Ruby saved the good sheets for the girls' bedrooms, figuring that anything she used on the second floor was a lost cause) and a flannel blanket that had been folded at the foot of the bed, and sat down on it gingerly. The box spring, surprisingly, didn't squeak under his weight, and the mattress felt firm, almost new, even. He started with folding his arms over his chest, his gaze awkwardly going to the collection of black and white photographs on the wall around the chair, to the floor, to his feet, and finally on the vanity, where the woman continued to stare at him silently. She shuffled a couple of cosmetic items around on its surface, putting a hand mirror in a small drawer off to the side, and then stood up from the chair, her height around 5'8" and her build slender, but still with strength in it; Miss Ruby had been thin, but her frame was frail. Laura turned the chair from her vanity around to face Mercer and sat down, folding her hands over each other in her lap, her eyes still firmly locked on him and her face expressionless. Minutes passed like this, until Mercer finally mustered the resolve to look at the woman in the eyes; she sighed, fluttered her eyelids, drew her mouth out slightly in a frown, and began.

"I wasn't sure when you'd come by. Who told you?"

"Art," Mercer replied, quietly, his gaze already back to his boots, "and Ortley, too."

"I see," Laura said, her voice gentle and thoughtful. "They always did take a bit of a shine to me. At their age, I'm sure they had family that they lost; I used to wonder if I was some kind of surrogate daughter to them."

Mercer said nothing for a bit, his hands fidgeting nervously in his lap. Finally, he opted to sit on his hands and stare sheepishly at Laura from his perch on the bed. She was still sitting, staring, waiting for him. He sighed, and rolled his head around on his neck, popping a vertebra as he did so.

"Yeah...So, uh, I guess you wanted to talk about Luke?"

"That's right," Laura nodded, "it's going to be his birthday next week. Did you know that?"

He blinked, several times, and looked back down.

"No," he managed, his voice barely above a whisper. "No, I didn't know that. He's gonna be, what, about...8? Right?"

"That's right, he's turning eight this next week." She smiled a little.

"That's good," he noted, with a nervous laugh. "Guess, uh, maybe you'd want me to help with presents?"

Laura's face fell, past the demure peace she had been in before, and into a sour grimace. Her hands clenched each other in her lap, and her body stiffened. Mercer, too, stiffened and recoiled back, his eyes locked on her.

"No," Laura replied, her eyes narrowed and her voice stern, "I didn't ask you up here to pressure you into buying a gift for Luke."

"I didn't-" he started, raising his hands in protest.

"William." Her voice was stern, but not hateful. Mercer winced at the mention of his first name. "We've been dancing to this song for eight years now. Can we just be honest for _one_ conversation? You know what I want here."

He opened his mouth, started on words, but said nothing to dispute her. After a moment like that, he dropped his head and exhaled.

"I know," he admitted, his voice defeated. "You know what I'll say."

"I know," she replied, her voice gentle, not at all stern like it had been before, "but let's...let's just, _talk_ , can't we just talk for once in our lives? As two people, who, you know, for the history we've had, can't we just do that?" She reached out towards him with hands open in a pleading gesture, but stopped herself and leaned back in her chair. "Do you know how many nights I've gone to bed hating you, William? Almost every night of those eight years, I swore that if I ever saw you in town, I'd beat you within an inch of your life. And yet, I said in the same breath, practically, that if you would just come around to your senses, live with us, I'd find a way to forgive you for everything." She paused, looking away, pain evident in her face. Mercer looked on helplessly from his spot on the bed. After what seemed like forever, really only a minute or two, she continued.

"Luke has never known who is father is; I used to tell him that you died, out in the wasteland, you know? Then some man, one of your old caravan buddies, stopped by the Nook when Luke and I were there and started running his mouth about you being his dad. He didn't know, I mean, unless _you_ told anyone, he was just speculating. Still, it was enough for Luke to want to know more; he said, even if you were dead, he wanted to know what you were like, what you did, so he could grow up to be like you."

Tears were beginning to form in Laura's eyes, her voice quivering by the time she finished speaking. Mercer, himself, was barely holding it together; his hands were balled into fists and were clutching his military fatigue shirt tightly. Maybe the tears hadn't come out yet, maybe he was still fighting them back, but they were close.

"You have **no** idea how hard it was for me not to tell him everything, right then and there. The wonder, the hope, the just...the love, William, the _love_ in his eyes when he said that. If I thought I hated you before that day, I hadn't even begun to feel what hate is. I wished I had never met you, I wished that you really **had** died in the wasteland, just so I could write you off and move on, but _no, **no, NO**_ , you just...you were always there, in my head, never going away," she bawled, her face buried in her hands.

Mercer felt the tears tracing damp tracks across his dirty face, the world blurring as his eyes swam with them, as he reached out a hand towards Laura's own, which were grasping the wooden arms of her vanity chair hard enough to leave her knuckles white. She recoiled, initially, drawing her hands to her chest and looking at him with puffy eyes (she hadn't worn any makeup that day) which were wide with surprise and, perhaps, fear. After a moment to adjust to his hand being there, still outstretched, she launched into a fresh bout of crying and wrapped her hands, small, delicate, soft, around his own weathered ones. He wasn't holding back, anymore, and wept alongside her; he leaned forward on the bed to touch his forehead against hers, feeling her lithe frame shuddering with every sob. There they sat, for what felt like every moment of the eight years he had been on the road, telling himself that he couldn't take the risk, that he had to stay in motion. The eight years that she had sat, waiting, hating him, hating herself for waiting. The eight years his son had grown up wanting to be like dear 'old dad, just like little Will Mercer had, back in those long-ago days. Finally, Laura broke the silence outside of their silent sobbing, her voice wavering from the crying.

"We want you back. I, I _get_ that you're looking for...well, whatever it is you're looking for. I never understood that about you, Mercer, but I get that you're looking for it. What I understand better is that you're afraid, you've been afraid this whole time. But can't you, just, for our sake, if not for your own, can't you at least **try**? I hated myself for so long, for not being able to let go. I guess," she said with a snort, looking away and wringing her hands, "I still love you. God, that sounds so...well, I mean...I sound like a-"

"You sound like someone who's had to go on, even after it felt like everything was lost," Mercer said, quietly. Knowingly. "But you still can't let go, no matter how hard you try."

"Yeah," Laura replied, her voice trailing off, her hand wrapping around his and squeezing tightly as she smiled through the tears. "Yeah, that's exactly it. I had to keep us going that whole time, and I'm not going to say that your money wasn't needed, it helped a lot, but for everything else, I had to do it all. I wanted to just, put you out of my mind, but that whole time, I was dreaming about you coming home, one day, and living with us. Isn't that just, sad?" She laughed, spitefully, at herself, shaking her head and then burying it in her free hand. Mercer squeezed her hand with his, then patted her shoulder with his own free hand.

"Do you get why I'm looking now? Why, no matter how hard you try, you just can't let go?"

"I do," she admitted, thoughtfully. "It's just...if that's your dream, why can't you let us have ours?" The comment caused Mercer to jump, looking away nervously, before turning back to her, ashamed.

"Well," Mercer sighed, "like you said, I'm still afraid. Even if you get why I'm looking, and why you haven't been able to let go, I'm still-"

Laura leaned over and hugged Mercer tightly, burying her head in the crook of his neck. The scavenger, totally caught off-guard, awkwardly patted her back, before slowly settling into the hug and wrapping his arms around her.

"I will help you," she murmured, resolutely, her eyes closed and her breath warm against his skin. "No matter what it takes, we just want you back. We can prove to you that it's safe."

Mercer stared at the wall across from them, at the black and white photos of old places from around town; shops, buildings, all with new cars and snappily-dressed people around them on the sidewalks, in the streets, and not a trace of dirt or rust or grime to be found. He closed his eyes, his shoulders slumping, and sighed heavily.

"I'm sorry, Laura. I just..."

She leaned back from the hug, to where she was eye-to-eye with him, and ran one of her hands across the bandage on his forehead.

"Promise me this, then. You're getting on in years, we both are. I'll be 34 next year, you'll be, well..."

"Old enough," Mercer quipped.

"Old enough," she repeated, smiling a little. "You can't keep this up forever. I know you've probably got all kinds of contracts and things to take care of now, but what about next year? That's a few months away, you've got-"

"I don't..." he started, but trailed off. He wanted to take the feeling that was welling up inside him and crush it, hard. He wanted to walk out of that room, right then and there, and just...move. Move on. Take to the trail. The open road beckons, with Chryslus Motors you can answer its call. Contact your local dealership today, special offers available now, just-

Stop.

Stop it. Get a grip.

He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and rolled his head around again on his neck. No popped vertebra this time around. When he opened his eyes, Laura's pale green eyes were trained on him, warm, loving. She wanted him to stay, so very badly, and he had no reason why he couldn't settle down in the next few months. Ortley's offer...then again, Ortley's deal with the Fort. There were other places, though...ones where he didn't know the people as well. Ones where he was always staying one step ahead of the past. The past. His father, and the other people, and now Laura and Luke, no. _No._ That wouldn't happen, couldn't happen again. No? This was the wasteland, after all. He'd seen it happen a thousand times to other people. What's her face's daughter, if he hadn't gotten so damned lucky and popped that kid in the head and brought her home? She'd be dead. Or worse. It happened, of course it happened, it happened every day, to good people. Who said it couldn't happen to him, someone who was not a good person? He was a fighter, he'd find a way out, or go down with as many of them as he could. But Laura? Luke? What if he died, and they lived? What if they died, and _he_ lived...again?

He really, really hated that feeling she was causing to well up inside of him. The one that told him to settle down, maybe not today, but _soon_ , and let himself be happy. Let himself trust. Let himself think that things were going to be okay, this time. Not like the "this times" that the bleached bones out in the wastes had held onto, not like the "this times" that had been strung up to rot on old freeway signs along Miggs' stretch of I-30, not like the "this time" that even Ortley was clutching to as his town was being overtaken by the Fort.

Soft fingers brushed over his cheek, causing him to open his eyes again. Laura was still looking at him with those loving eyes, but now they were filled with worry, her mouth set in a frown.

"You cringed just now, just before you got into your thoughts like that. Do you need-"

"It's nothing," he replied, quickly. "Just an old wound, that's all. Doesn't usually flare up."

"Okay," she murmured, letting it go. After a pause, she pulled back, tapping the palms of her hands together. "Look, will you just think about it? Get back to me? I wasn't even sure how I'd take this talk, but...and I still feel like such a weakling for saying it, I still feel something for you. We could really use the help, and I know Luke would love to have you around. I..." her voice shook at that point. "I would really like to have you around, myself."

Mercer stared at her for a long moment, then at his hands, then at the door; he stared a long time at the door before looking back to her and nodding slowly.

"I will think about it, I'll promise you that much. Beyond that...I don't know. Even if I can't stay, maybe, I don't know, I could try and see you guys...visits, or something."

Laura exhaled, wringing her hands together for a moment, then wiping her eyes with her bare arm.

"I guess that will have to do. Thank you, though. I know this wasn't easy for you, just to get this all out there."

"Yeah, well, for the eight years it took to get here, I guess I was anticipating a whole lot worse than what happened."

Laura laughed, her composure coming back to her little by little.

"Yeah, I guess we both anticipated a lot worse. Look, I don't know how long you planned on staying, but..." She trailed off, waiting for Mercer to fill in the details about his departure time.

"Pete and I met up on my way into town; he wanted to meet at the Eagles Club for drinks about, well, probably about now, knowing how early he tends to knock off for bed. He leaves tomorrow night, I don't know the destination yet, was going to get the details from him when we were at the bar."

"Can you see about going to the Nook with me and Luke, then, before that? We wouldn't even take that much time, promise."

Mercer looked down at his hands, noticing how wrinkled and callused they had gotten compared to Laura's hands, which had stayed just as soft and as delicate as they had been when they first met.

"I think I can do that, sure. Just, uh..."

"We won't make it a big thing, or anything," she assured him, patting his hands gently.

"Thanks," Mercer responded, smiling at her. She smiled back, the softness of her fingers feeling comforting to his weathered hands. "I guess I better be going soon, though. Pete won't be there forever. See you tomorrow, then?"

"Okay. I'll see you then, Wi- ah, Mercer."

Both of them stood and Laura hugged him again, not as tightly as before. Mercer, again, patted her back comfortingly, then shifted his pack onto his shoulder and stepped towards the door.

"See you, Laura."

She smiled, looking down at the floor, as he closed the door behind him. Miss Ruby had vacated the hallway some time before, but judging by the rich ochre color of the sunlight filtering through the windows in the adjoining building, where the stairs were, it was either 7:00 or close to it, so she had probably moved downstairs to oversee the main show. With a jolt, he realized that he had spent nearly an hour and a half talking with Laura; it had felt so fast, but there had been a lot of silence in between the talking, moments where they both let their hearts do the talking for them.


	5. Chapter 5

By the time Mercer reached the ground floor, his eyes were pretty much back to normal, save for being bloodshot, and he had regained his composure from the talk with Laura. Navigating his way around the array of junk scattered across the backroom, he pounded on the metal door that Needle had pulled him through before, and it opened, revealing the man's weathered face and hulking form. Behind him, a thrashing crowd of intoxicated men (and a few women) had engulfed the area around the main stage, where Mercer could just barely, through the haze and the lighting, make out a couple of women swaying from the poles and posing for the customers. With all the emotions from Laura still churning in his heart, the lurid display was the last thing he was interested in. He had to mouth his words to Needle, as another band had taken the stage and was attempting to play music to match the movement of the dancers. Granted, with the way they were gawking at the main attractions, they were hitting more wrong notes than right ones.

 _You good? Ready to go?_

 _Get me out of here; if I have to listen to that racket any longer, I think I'll hurl._

Needle grinned and motioned for him to approach.

 _I got a half bar that says the idiot on the guitar gets a knife in the gut. Duke, the bartender, thinks the guy will make it until next week before someone tries to rearrange his face._

 _Tell Duke his optimism is endearing._

Needle laughed audibly as he broke into a quick jog, holding one arm out to push people aside like a star lineman and cradling the scavenger (who only stood about 5'10") under his other arm. The men hooting and hollering at the dancers were single-minded to the core; even after Needle pushed one out of the way with enough force to send him to the floor, the only thing the man did was stand up, brush himself off, and resume cheering and whistling at the girls, without so much as a wayward glance at the bruiser who had brushed past him. In a few minutes, both Needle and Mercer were catching their breath outside, Brandt ushering the smaller man off to the side while his brother scanned the line of hopefuls trying to get into the club.

"Damn bro, I thought you said they'd throw the trash out after the show was over?"

A couple of younger men near the front of the line pushed forward, grimacing at Needle, who cracked his knuckles with a smirk and a wink. Brandt left Mercer slouched against one of the sealed-up storefronts to push the young men back with a stern glare and a shake of the head.

"Needle, come on, you know what Ruby said about riling up the outsiders. Get back in there before some wiseass tries to run upstairs to the brothel again, will ya?"

"Yeah, yeah," Needle teased, clapping Mercer on the back before he opened the front door. "Hey, little man, you play cards? We're always looking for new people who don't mind losing their shirt."

"I've been known to play on occasion," Mercer managed, wiping the sweat from his brow; the club's interior had been a feverish mosh pit of bodies, and while Needle's stampede had left him panting by the time they hit the street, it had saved him a lot of struggling against the crowd. "I don't think it'll be anytime soon, though; I'm flat broke."

First lesson of the wasteland: don't ever tell the truth, if you can help it. Any one of the shuffling men in the line could have had a bunch of friends hiding out in the gullies and culverts that ran across the landscape like capillaries, friends who made their living off of other people's dying. He'd lost a lot of good friends, back in the caravan days, who had gotten drunk and bragged about their cargo, or even just made a casual mention of their intended departure, only to end up as a pile of bones and broken hopes strung out across some forsaken section of tarmac. In any case, Needle hadn't heard him, he was already in the club by the time Mercer finished his sentence. Brandt was scowling at the line, arms crossed over his chest and jaw jutting out. They made a pair, those two; Madame had picked them up from a work-release program the Fort had been running, back when it kept prisoners instead of exiling them or shooting them on sight. Apparently, they had been jailed for starting a brawl, with each other; when a merc group jumped in to join in the fun, the brothers banded together to beat the whole gang onto the barroom floor, then went right back to fighting each other as though the interruption had never happened.

The sunlight was fading fast on the horizon, casting long shadows down the stretch of Van Buren street he was on and bathing the whole world in a garish hue of atomic fire orange. The way to the Eagles Club was only a couple of blocks that he had already traversed earlier in the day, but the glare of the sunlight on the horizon caused him to shield his eyes as he made his way along the sidewalk. As he passed the Raupfer building, a man caught his arm, causing him to reel back into the nook of an abandoned shop's doorway. Smashed plate glass windows bordered the doorway on either side, giving a great view of the looted storefront. The man, dressed in a dirty jumpsuit and mud-stained workboots, looked at him with wide eyes and a mouth slightly agape.

"Whoa, easy there. My friend and I were going to head down to the Central to catch the show, I saw you come from that way. Is there any room?"

Mercer's eyes adjusted to the shadows slowly, and he shook his head with a quiet laugh.

"Sorry, getting jumpy, I guess. The show's full up, there's a line clear across the street. You'll never get in at this hour, but they have a later show at 10, you-"

"No, no, that's alright. We've got to get to the water plant at 6 tomorrow morning, we'd never be able to make it there and back in time to get a good night's sleep. Thanks anyways," he muttered, then jammed his hands in his pockets and shuffled his way back inside the Raupfer. Mercer trotted across Line Street and joined the back of the mercifully short line that was standing outside the squat brick building he had passed earlier in the day.

The Eagles Club had, from the first time Mercer arrived in Olum, been his preferred haunt. Back then, there had been three bartenders who rotated on shift, a full kitchen staff, and a line that had stretched across Van Buren to the Grant Building. While it had never drawn the crowds that the Central boasted, even in the early days when it had been one of the only bars in town, it had always pretty much had the same kind of clientele: people who stopped in for a drink or three, maybe tried their hand at a game of pool or cards. The rambunctious drunks, the guys who tried to start fights, were usually given one warning and then banned for life after that. Unlike the barely-contained chaos of the Central, the Eagles had plenty of more-or-less sober patrons, mostly locals who knew and generally enjoyed the company of one another, so the lifetime bans were enforced with little difficulty. The last person Mercer had seen try to overrule the ban system had gotten a .32 slug in the thigh and a baseball bat to the ribcage; after that, he got the message and did his business down the street at Miss Ruby's. The casual, close-knit environment of the bar had always appealed to him, and on some occasions, had felt more like family to him than his own, especially when he started actively avoiding Laura.

The line moved forward as a few people stepped outside, commenting on the sunset, and parted ways to go to their own homes. Mercer had barely stepped forward to the new position in line when another big crowd exited and the line moved ahead again, taking him inside to a hallway that curved around to the right. Wooden paneling graced the walls, with lines of photographs, some of them exceptionally yellowed, set in crooked picture frames. A sign above the photos proudly denoted the men as presidents of the club, and though Mercer must have passed through the hall a thousand times since he started coming through Olum, he had never really understood how a bar could have a president. The interior of the club, past the picture hall, was a single large room filled with chairs and tables in fairly good shape, a bar at the back end, and a cafeteria running along the long wall catercorner to the bar. A lone man was tending bar, talking amicably with the customers who were sitting there. Mercer smiled at him as he approached and took a free bar stool for himself.

After the Central exploded into the den of iniquity that it currently was, the Eagles had just sort of receded gracefully. The kitchen staff was quickly scaled down to a pair of cooks, and the three bartenders dropped to two, for a while, until only old Harry was left. With a meticulously-kept pompadour of slate grey hair and the squared jaw of a boxer, Harry was always dressed in a worn white tuxedo coat and shirt, a black bow tie, and black pants; he looked more like the lounge singers Mercer had seen on old posters and record albums than a bartender, and to Harry, that was the point. He would eagerly regale anyone who asked about his impressive lineage, descended from a true legend, a man who played the Tops, the Lucky 38, and all the other big casinos in Las Vegas. How he had ended up in the Midwest, of all places, was something that Harry always conveniently left out of his account. When the younger guys had quit to go work at the Central or try their luck in the Fort, the old man had adamantly stated that he'd leave the Eagles Club when they were dragging his body out to be buried, and not a moment sooner. To the best of Mercer's knowledge, Harry was around Art and Ortley's age, maybe a little bit between the two; he had a host of wrinkles in his forehead that would ripple as he talked, and while he still had a broad chest and shoulders, his body had begun to stoop with age. His voice was gruff and had plenty of bark in it, yet he never seemed to raise it, no matter how much was going on.

The old man finished jawing at the local he had been serving and moved down to Mercer, a twinkle in his eye and his jutting overbite curled into a knowing smirk. Mercer, in response, slipped the pack from his shoulders and onto his lap, rummaging around inside for a moment before bringing out a postcard and sliding it over the weathered surface of the bar. Upon the weathered surface of the curio was a photograph of a man singing on a stage, wearing a black tuxedo that had faded to brown over time. Harry looked at the postcard for a moment, a wistful expression flashing across his face for a moment, and then placed it under the bar. Mercer remained silent as he refastened his pack and set it at his feet.

"Well, kid, I guess I owe you that whiskey after all," Harry grumbled, putting his hands on the bar and hunching forward. "I guess it'd be too much to ask where you got it?"

"Old gas station," Mercer murmured, smiling a little. "I looked all over the place, but that was the only one I found from Vegas."

Harry nodded and brought out a tall bottle of orange liquor, the faded label reading:

 _ **Olde Royale**_

 _ **Private Stock**_

 ** _Kentucky Straight Bourbon Whiskey_**

 ** _Aged (8) Years_**

He set out a tumbler that had turned cloudy from age and uncorked the bottle, letting the liquid slosh into the glass, before pushing it across the bar to Mercer. The scavenger stared down at the booze, the flicker of the electric lamps above caught in the little waves that rippled across its surface, and swished it around a few times. Old memories, old friends. The smell of whiskey and cigars, the sound of pool cues connecting with their targets over at the billiards table with the nasty rip in the felt, darts embedding themselves in the wooden paneling next to the dartboard, faded laughter from people he once knew. The subtle fragrance of perfume and the sound of women talking from downstairs, delicate fingers brushing through his dirty hair, soft caresses in the dark under cotton sheets. The stinging aroma of cordite, his eyes burning and ears ringing from the shot; warm, wet liquid and something hard and brittle scattered across his face and strewn through his hair; a lump of something that had once been human, now sliding down his cheek. Regret.

Regret.

Mercer cocked back the glass and let the strong liquid hit the back of his throat, leaving a stinging sensation as it went down hard. He shook his head, slammed the glass back down on the bar, and exhaled through pursed lips as the whiskey dumped into his belly. Harry chuckled.

"I guess you never change, kid, huh?"

"Not my job to nurse the liquor," Mercer retorted with a smirk, "it's the liquor's job to nurse _me_."

Harry laughed again, shaking his head and going to the other side of the bar to get payment from another patron. Mercer took the break to look around the room. It was a pretty typical night at the Eagles: a few men were brooding over a game of poker, a couple of halves and a bar sitting in the kitty; most of the customers were sitting quietly, drinking, smoking, and talking, with not a single glance paid to the scavenger after he had arrived. He, along with the rest of the men there, was a regular; there was no need for greetings when they had seen him, and he them, so many times before. Pete wasn't visible, which caused Mercer to turn back to Harry, after he had returned, with a worried look.

"Hey, has Pete dropped by yet tonight?"

"Nope. Why, he owe you money?"

"Job offer."

Harry growled assent as he poured out another strong bolt of whiskey, then set the bottle aside and nudged Mercer with an elbow.

"I appreciate you finding it for me, but after this I can't put it on the house no more. Alright?"

"I think I have something that will change your mind," Mercer retorted.

The old man didn't even flinch, raising an eyebrow and snorting with confusion. Mercer ducked down to his pack and unbuckled it, fishing around for a bit before coming back with a small metal square, about four inches by four inches, maybe half an inch thick, with a plastic viewing window running diagonally through the center that displayed two reels of tape and thin lines of air vents at one end. He placed it on the bar and tapped gently at the peeling label that had been affixed to one of the narrow sides of the diskette. Harry, with trembling hands, lifted the disk and scanned over the label, once, twice, and again, finally setting it back down and staring at it in disbelief.

"You actually found one."

"Yep. Sitting in someone's home. The holoplayer was wrecked beyond salvage, just a mess of parts everwhere."

"That's alright," Harry replied, his voice shaking as much as his hands. "You, I-" he trailed off, then swallowed and cleared his throat, speaking in a low voice. "What do you want for this?"

"I won't lie, Harry," Mercer began, also lowering his voice, "money's tight right now. I could really use some bars, whatever you can spare."

The old man rubbed the stubble on his chin and grimaced.

"I won't lie either, Mercer, money's tight for more folks than just you. I could probably spare a fiver, but not much more."

Mercer mulled it over, turning his head to one side, then to the other, as he gently swirled the whiskey around in the tumbler. A fiver would give him enough spending money to upgrade his weapons and fill up on ammo; the rest of the scavenge in his pack had been, if he was being honest, rather scarce. Still, the holodisk hadn't exactly been easy to come by; he had found it "in someone's house", sure, but he hadn't mentioned that the house had been gutted and repurposed by a nasty group of cannibals, the majority of whom Mercer had slipped past as they were out on a hunt. In fact, most of the scavenge he had brought back with him had come from the makeshift base. The man-hunters hadn't seen him, at least, but it had been an amazingly stupid, highly dangerous gamble.

He sipped at the whiskey, slower this time, and set the glass back down on the well-worn bartop before clearing his throat.

"Tell you what, you throw in a box of ammo with that fiver and I'll call it a deal. That cover your 'not much more'?"

Harry frowned, looked down the bar at a man who was calling for a scotch, giving him a nod of affirmation, then turned back to the scavenger.

"Kid, you're worse than my ex-wife, you know that?"

"Couldn't be, Harry, you know I've never cheated on you. The Eagles is the only place I go when I'm in town."

The old man laughed, hearty, and clapped Mercer on the shoulder.

"Kid, you're too bright to be picking up scrap for a living; ain't many people out there anymore who can make this old sunuvabitch crack up like you just did. Give me a minute," he began, jerking a thumb to the man at the end of the bar, "and I'll be back with your stuff. Any preference on the slugs?"

"12 gauge, if you've got 'em, 10mm otherwise," Mercer replied, smirking over the deal's success.

"It'll be shotgun shells, then. I don't keep much of the other stuff here, but I've got plenty of ammo for the boomstick I keep under the counter, you know. Be right back."

As the old barkeep slid down to fill the other patron's order, Mercer killed the last of the whiskey and set the tumbler down again, sighing once more. It was good stuff, better than the swill Pete usually ordered, and he'd been glad to cash in his favors for a couple of glasses; between Ortley, Laura, and now this mess with the Fort, the wasteland was starting to look better and better. A hand grasped his shoulder, causing him to turn around on the creaking barstool, and he grinned. Pete had arrived.

"Hope you haven't drank through too much of your money; I was serious about buying this round."

"No, just getting the good stuff now before you poison me with that rotgut you insist on getting. You're late, what happened?"

"Got held up, nothing serious. You still know how to swing a wrench though, right? We might need to do a couple of repairs on the heap we came in on; there's something screwy going on with the wheels. Axels are all locked up, or something."

"Have you looked underneath, see if an iguana or something got caught up in it?"

"No, haven't had the time. Hey Harry," Pete called out as the old man returned to their spot at the bar.

"Hey, Pete. How's the caravan business treating you?"

"It's treating me steady, even if it ain't treating me great. Mercer tell you that I'm covering his drinks tonight?"

Harry eyeballed Mercer, who shrugged innocently.

"No, must have slipped his mind," Harry mused. "I don't see how, considering how tight you are with your money."

Pete chuckled.

"He's covered me enough times, I figured I'd pay him back. Let's start off with a beer for me, and whatever-"

"I'll take another whiskey, maybe something a little cheaper," Mercer interjected, losing no time. Harry nodded and set off to fill their order.

The two men settled in at the bar, the quiet murmuring of the other patrons echoing around them. He liked drinking with Pete, even if the guy was tight with his money, and he liked working with Pete, who was as no-nonsense about getting a job done as he was. When it came right down to it, Pete was one of the few people who Mercer could honestly say he trusted, as a friend. They both were wandering souls, as some nutty Fort scholar had described Mercer after a successful job some years back; neither one had ever given much serious thought to settling down, and neither one was really comfortable around a lot of people. Granted, as a caravaneer, Pete had grown more sociable from negotiating better contracts and dealing with shifty clients who wanted to stiff him on the delivery payments. Still, they were at home when they were out on the road, one hiking through ruins, the other at the head of a brahmin cart.

As they sat at the bar, quietly waiting for their drinks, Pete nudged Mercer's arm with his elbow, nodding his head once towards the pack which sat between the scavenger's feet.

"How's the weather been?" Pete inquired, his eyes squinting just a little.

"Stormy," Mercer grumbled back, not even meeting the other man's gaze. It was scavenger talk, code; if you didn't tell strangers in a line to a whorehouse when you were leaving town, you sure as hell didn't say that you'd just hit upon a big haul while drinking in the town watering hole. Pete had asked him about his finds, and Mercer had given it to him straight: finds were pretty godawful. He had picked over most of the tourist traps and gas station towns along the interstate long ago; his little venture into the man-hunter base had, in all honesty, been more out of desperation than out of good timing. Granted, he wouldn't have charged in if the cannibals had been there, but he would have normally given such a place a wide berth, if he wasn't so hard up. A scruffy man down the bar, wearing a faded military coat, the pockets bulged out from years of being stuffed full to the brim with junk, nodded his head and turned to look at the two men.

"I guess you boys haven't had much luck, either?"

"Ain't really any of your concern, stranger," Mercer growled. Strangers bothered him. He hated strangers, almost as much as the locals did.

"No, it's not," he agreed, nodding his head and running a dark, sun-cracked hand through his scraggly beard, "but seems to me that you could use a little advice. You've heard about what the Fort's doing, ain't you?"

Mercer simply glared, waiting for the man to finish his spiel. Just then, Harry returned with the drinks and, as if he had read Mercer's mind, leaned in as he slid the whiskey to him.

"Guy's name is Nate, he's been through here a few times now. Always comes in alone, scavenger just like you."

Harry was a good guy, really, he was. But he was a little too behind the times; he'd spent most of his life behind a counter, bottles in his hands, and Olum was a safe, lawful kind of town. It probably hadn't even crossed his mind, like it had crossed Mercer's in so many loud, fear-tinged ways, since the man started speaking, that some of the gangs liked to plant bait men in saloons and cathouses, lure unsuspecting scavengers out to some remote location to share in a find, and then string them up and gut them. With that in mind, Mercer merely nodded and sipped his whiskey slow, savoring the taste. It was smoother than the stuff he'd gotten before, if not as strong.

"Word is, they're lookin' for a Vault," Nate continued, eyes wide and hands extended for emphasis. Pete snorted and shook his head.

"God, is that old rumor still floating around? I thought it had died out years ago. They've got the one in the Fort, and it's hardly what I'd call a prime scavenging opportunity; you'd have better luck finding stuff to sell in this room, here, than you would there. Besides, it's all locked down, with armed guards. Why don't you save your tall tales for some kid who doesn't know any better?"

"I ain't talkin' about the one in the Fort," Nate shot back, anger in his eyes. "The word out on the trail is that some eggheads in the Fort are looking for someone, a scavenger, to find them a Vault that nobody's ever seen, somewhere out here. There's a bounty for it, too. Ten thousand bars. Twenty if you get what they're looking for."

Mercer shook his head and turned back to his whiskey, while Pete stood up from his barstool and threw up his hands.

"Ah, quit it with that garbage. Nobody's stupid enough to fall for such a line, anyways."

Nate ignored the outburst, training his gaze on Mercer instead.

"What about you, mister? You believe me?"

"Buddy," Mercer growled, "even if what you were telling me was true, there's no way you or I could get into one of those Vaults. They were built to withstand nukes, you think some wasteland nobody with a pistol and a couple of hand grenades is going to break in? Yeah, right."

The scruffy man stood up, shaking his head.

"It's a damn shame, it is. But, I guess you two will see who gets the last laugh when _I_ get in there and get that thing they've been talking about. Can't say I didn't try to throw you a bone tonight."

"Get off with you, you damn nutcase," Pete rattled off, setting his empty beer bottle on the bar.

"Hey, you two," Harry barked, his voice refusing to raise, "either play nice or take it outside."

Nate raised his hands, heading towards the door.

"I'm gone, mister. But you can't say I didn't try to help them, now."

With that, the other scavenger departed. A couple of the locals traded snide remarks and titters, before resuming their activities. Harry brought another beer for Pete and brought out the whiskey for Mercer, who turned it down and asked for a beer like Pete's.

"This is the first time he's acted up," the old man insisted, shaking his head as he popped the top on Mercer's beer. A faint gurgle emitted from the bottle; since the War, hard liquor had kept its kick, but beer had gone flat and rancid in the interim years. Some enterprising farmers, though, had quickly come up with ways of brewing their own lagers and capping them off in the bottles that the old pre-War beers had come in. Granted, with the demise of American industry as the Old World had known it, it was hard to get a good seal that kept the fizz in the beer, so most bottles were flat and a little stale, but still had flavor to them. Any wasteland bartender worth his salt, and Harry was worth more than his by a long shot, sold the bottles with good seals for a premium, letting the flat brews go for cheap.

"You shouldn't be surprised," Pete muttered, sipping at the new bottle Harry had put down for him. "The guy looked like he'd been standing out in the sun for a week, with the way he was dressed. Probably fried his grey matter a long time ago."

"As if you've got any room to talk," Harry retorted with a smirk. "How many years now, has it been?"

"Too damn many," Pete replied, matter-of-factly. "And that's the way it'll stay until they put me into the ground or I finally lose what sense I've got left and let a woman tie me down."

The comment was a little ironic, as Pete had been quite sweet on one of Miss Ruby's girls years ago, back when he and Laura were just starting to run into their own troubles and drift apart. She'd been young, feisty, and had an iron constitution when it came to drinking; that was just Pete's type, someone to do all the talking (and most of the working, when they got more private-like) while he sat back and just took it all in. She'd gotten bored of Olum, though, after one too many tales about the bright lights and glamour of the Fort. Sadly, while she had quickly adjusted to the big city in some ways, she'd been utterly unprepared for it in others; she died a few months after she had arrived, from an overdose in a backstreet burlesque joint. Pete, who had been trying to land caravan jobs that took him through the Fort just so he could see her after her move, had expressed remarkably little grief over the event; but, as Mercer knew only too well, he and Pete didn't show pain on the outside, both of them had learned, out in the wasteland, that pain was a liability men in their lines of work couldn't afford. Before he could brood any more over what the strange interloper had said, or Pete's past, the caravaneer nudged him again.

"So, are you ready to hear about that job offer?"


	6. Chapter 6

Mercer took another pull of beer from his bottle, swishing the flat liquor around in his mouth before swallowing. It wasn't half bad, and he was already pretty well-buzzed from the whiskey, so it didn't need to be wonderful to go down easy. Harry had already departed, no doubt letting the men talk business, and Pete was looking at him expectantly, his fingers drumming slowly against his beer.

"Go for it, bud, I'm all ears."

"Right. It's a four day job, couple of towns on our way, one stop in the middle of nowhere. Nothing to be worried about," he added in a low voice, noting Mercer's tensing eyebrows, "it's for Benedict."

"The gun runner?" Mercer inquired, dropping his voice, too. Benedict's name alone carried a lot of weight, and could very easily attract the wrong kind of attention.

"Yup. I'm paying a debt, we'll leave it at that. Anyways, he and his boys keep the whole area we'll be passing through safe as houses."

"Fine," Mercer sighed before sipping his beer again. He sucked on a tooth, thinking, and then spoke again, his voice at normal tone again. "So, what's the route?"

"Day one takes us from here to Whitley, then we push on to Roke and rest overnight. We detour for a day north of there, on the west side of 69, then back to Roke. From there, we'll push on to Monroeville and stop. After that, it's on to the Fort, through New Haven."

"What sort of pace will we be taking?" Just like scavengers, caravaneers had their own code. Since the fort started keeping the trade routes safe, it was okay to give a general list of the cities one would visit, as Pete had just done; the gangs lacked both the firepower and the manpower to try and assault every caravan that passed through, but if someone was bragging about carrying particularly high-value cargo and a raider scout overheard, that could have been enough bait for bandits to chance an ambush.

"We'll be going pretty briskly the whole way through, and we'll need to really push after we reach Roke the first time," Pete replied, flatly. The cargo for Benedict, it would seem, was particularly precious. Everything else was mid-value stuff, probably water, food, maybe ammo and weapons. To confirm Mercer's suspicions, Pete wrapped his index and middle fingers around his beer and tucked his ring and little fingers against the glass, his thumb sticking away from the bottle. Food and water, and they'd be traveling armed. After a moment to think, he tapped his thumb against the glass once. Violence expected, but not guaranteed. He must have gotten word from another caravan group about some leg of their journey, no doubt about wild creatures or a marauding gang.

Mercer killed the last of his beer, reclining his head as he swallowed the last of the brew, and set the bottle down on the bar with a firm _clank_. He belched, softly, and shook his head, the room starting to blur a little from the booze. Pete smiled, finishing off his beer, and motioned for Harry to return.

"Okay, okay," Mercer mumbled, starting to feel the liquor slow him down, "one more and then I think I'm going to-"

"Really, man? I offer to buy you drinks and you're getting a cheap shot of whisky and a couple of piss-beers? Come on, give me a run for my money; get something off the top shelf, my treat." When Mercer merely blinked at him, unconvinced, Pete raised his hands, palms up, and grinned sheepishly. "Think of it as a nightcap. I mean, really, you've paid for my drinks how many times, now?"

"A lot," Mercer agreed, rubbing at his scalp. "I'm trying to avoid getting smashed, though, you know?"

Harry came back before Pete could reply, giving Mercer a knowing glance before turning to Pete.

"So, you boys make up your minds? I've got two more 'piss-beers' here if you want 'em."

"I think we're good, Harry," Pete retorted. "Get us something _really_ swank, whatever you keep under the counter for the paying customers."

The old man nodded, then rummaged under the counter for a pair of glasses, which he put before the two men with a flourish, then departed for a moment to get something from a cabinet under the sparse liquor counter behind him; most of the bottles lined up behind the bar were pre-War and empty. Pete's comment notwithstanding, most of Harry's stock was kept under the bar counter, to make it that much harder for customers with sticky fingers (or loose trigger fingers) messing with his supply. The bartender returned after a moment with a squat green bottle, round in shape, with a foil label that, excepting the peeling parts, shined in the light. It read:

 **Old Portsmouth**

 _ **Peppermint Schnapps**_

 **A rare LIQUEUR delicate**

 **fragrant and cooling in taste**

 **Sixty proof - 1/10 pint**

Harry displayed it for both men to get a closer look at, even unscrewing the top to let them get a whiff; it was strong, making Mercer's throat and chest tingle from the sweet and minty odor.

"I think we've found my nightcap, Pete," Mercer said with a grin.

"Yeah, lucky you. I'm nowhere near drunk enough for a nightcap," Pete replied with a snort. "You get him set up with that, Harry, and get me a couple of beers, good ones."

The bartender did just that and left them to their contemplation. Mercer sipped at the sweet liqueur slowly, it went down smooth and tingled with the mint and strong alcohol. Pete, on the other hand, was pushing the bottle caps around the bartop with his finger after a couple of swigs. A large group of men, the poker players from before and their entourage, approached the bar at the other end of the room, settling up with Harry and handing over their bars. When they finally left, smoking and talking among themselves, the room's occupancy shrunk to a half dozen men, not counting Harry, Pete or Mercer.

"So," the caravaneer began, studying the design on his bottlecaps, not looking at Mercer.

"So." Mercer agreed, closing his eyes for a couple of moments and enjoying the warm, heavy feeling in his stomach.

"Are you interested?"

It was a tricky question. Violence expected, hauling food and water over four days, dealing with Benedict somehow, all of that sounded like a mess. He'd been priding himself before on not killing anyone in almost a year, and he really didn't want to mess up that streak.

"Didn't you tell me you'd be leaving at night?" Mercer asked, stalling for time.

Pete groaned his assent as he took a long pull from one of the beers. He wiped his mouth with one hand, inhaled sharply through his nose, and then emitted a loud belch that lasted a couple of seconds, before looking at Mercer with a proud grin.

"Good God," Harry called out from the other end of the bar. "You plan on cleaning all that off my counter?"

"Hey, I'm complimenting your selection of drinks!" Pete called back, cheerful. He wasn't usually this cocky, even if there was a big contract on the table. Something must have been up with Benedict that was causing him to be so cavalier. After a moment, he turned to Mercer, who managed a soft chuckle over the outburst. "Damn, man, you always get in the barrel real fast, don't you?"

"Like I told Harry, it ain't my job to nurse the liquor, it's the other way around. So, we're leaving at night?"

"Yeah, well, that was before this axle trouble. Now I'm thinking we're going to leave later. Probably stay in town tomorrow night, get a fresh start in the morning. Is that going to be a problem?"

"Not a problem, I was just wondering why you were trying to push through to Roke if we were leaving here at night."

"Yeah," Pete said, nodding and starting on his other beer. "I decided to change the schedule. Dusty didn't have any complaints. Oh, uh," he paused, smiling nervously, "you might want to give him some space when we're out there. He's a little, uh...odd. Very particular about his brahmin, that's for sure."

"He seemed to have his mind on something earlier, that's for sure."

"Yeah, he's a good driver, just, you know, not so good with people. Always off in his own little world, almost like a kid, in that way."

Mercer thought of his meeting with Laura and Luke the next day and took a long chug of his drink, instantly regretting it when the strong sensation of the liquor and mint surged down his throat and through his chest; he blew out air through his mouth and shook his head. Pete sipped his beer again and chuckled.

"Somehow, I feel like that nightcap was a bad idea now. You going to be okay?"

"Yeah," Mercer wheezed, rubbing his temples, "I'm glad we're not heading out tomorrow, though. Damn."

Pete clapped his back sympathetically.

"See, though, when you wake up tomorrow with a raging hangover, that'll be one that _I_ bought with _my_ money. So, you'd better savor it for every moment, 'cause ''it's on me."

"Ha, ha," Mercer replied, humorlessly. "You're in an awfully good mood tonight, aren't you?"

"Yeah, just looking forward to when we get to Roke." Paying off his debt to Benedict, more like it. Still, Mercer could appreciate that the man was happy to settle things up; debts in the wasteland could be the death of someone, or worse. "So, then, with your comment about leaving, I take it you're in?"

Mercer shifted uneasily on the barstool. He'd been trying to avoid a direct answer on that question, honestly, but it would seem that he could put it off no longer. He took a deep breath, sliding his drink away from him, and stared at the bar, taking in the countless indentations in the weathered wood from generations of glasses and bottles.

"I'll be honest, Pete," Mercer began, staring straight at Pete's eyes, "you're looking for a pretty big," he looked down to his hand, which was against the bar, thumb out and tapping once against the counter, before looking back at Pete "commitment here. Four days might be more than I can handle. Now, if it was a little shorter," he looked back at his thumb, which stuck out in the air, no tapping, "or even through some better towns," thumb down completely, "I think it'd be easier for me to say yes. I appreciate the drinks, but I feel like, maybe, this is more than I can take on right now."

The caravaneer nodded slowly, taking another sip of his beer, and then thought for a moment before replying in a quiet voice.

"It's not what I really want, either. I mean, sure, the pay's reliable, but it's a long haul," he put his own hand on the counter, palm down, fingers splayed out, waving it a little. It was a gesture that, in the caravan circles, could mean a lot of things. Given that Mercer had just been signalling about the risk factor, though, it was meant to communicate that the reports were a little old or a little unreliable. The thumb tap had been hesitant before, and it was because there _might_ be a good chance of violence. That didn't really make Mercer feel any better; Pete was smart, and wouldn't take on more than he could handle, even if he was paying off a debt to Benedict himself, but old news was dangerous, and unreliable news was even worse than that. "If things weren't so tight in the Fort for contracts right now, I wouldn't even bother." That part wasn't code; it'd been public knowledge for years that some of the caravan companies in the Fort had started settling disputes and reconciling differences to work together. If things continued the way they were going, there'd be a few very powerful groups running most of the carts through the entire area. That meant bad news for independent guys, contract-to-contract guys, like Pete.

Mercer nodded, himself, and traced a circle on the bar as he sipped the last of the liqueur, sliding his finger off towards Pete. Old caravan gesture, essentially asking Pete what his professional opinion was; it was clear, from what had already been signaled, that Pete's info had been dubious, at best, and Mercer wanted an update now that everything had been discussed. Pete, himself, looked down at the pair of bottle caps from his beers, the ones he had been playing with as they talked, and used his finger to flick one off the bar and onto the floor. He replied, finally, putting his hand palm-down on the bar, thumb out. No taps, but his finger quavered for a moment there; thus, he gave his final prediction for the safety of their journey. His eyes weren't particularly happy when he turned back to look at Mercer to wait for his reply. The scavenger sighed.

"I'm in," he replied, quietly, eyes down.

Pete nodded and finished off his beer. Behind them, a couple of other patrons walked outside, with no one coming in to take their place; the line that Mercer had stood in prior to entry had long since come through, gotten their drinks, and left. It was almost nine o'clock, and most of the men who came to the Eagles were of the kind who had to wake up early, without a splitting headache; if they wanted to shake themselves awake around noon or so with a mean hangover and maybe a new scar or two, they went to the Central.

"Thanks, bud," Pete replied, clapping him on the shoulder again. Pete understood; the younger guys who had never known anything but the brutality of the wastes, they treated killing like a rite of passage. To them, taking a life somehow added more worth to one's own, in some perverse survival-of-the-fittest dynamic. For the older folks, the ones who had endured all that they had, killing was a profane act, something that stuck with a person. It was why, for one reason, Miss Ruby had Brandt, Needle, and all the rest of the toughs in her place as bouncers; they were birthed in dirt and blood, raised on a steady diet of bitterness, and pushed out into the world with no future to latch onto and no past to escape into.

"Sure," Mercer managed, feeling the liquor's pull even more. He wasn't slurring, but he was getting very sluggish, tired, and his vision was blurring more. Pete lined up his bottles on one side of the counter. Harry was already coming back before they had gotten a chance to signal for him.

"You good, Mercer?"

"I'm good, Harry," he murmured, nodding drowsily.

"I'll take a shot, make it good," Pete added on, quickly.

"Whiskey okay? I've got plenty of it."

"Yeah, whiskey works. I think we'll need to see Mercer here off, though; doubt he'll be conscious by the time I've worked my around to a nightcap, myself."

Harry nodded and, by habit, started adding up the drinks, when he paused and chuckled.

"Oh, right. You're covering his drinks tonight, aren't you?"

Pete grinned.

"And don't you forget it! Say, maybe you could get me a shot of whatever that stuff was Mercer was drinking before I got here, that smelled damned good."

"Expensive, more like, but sure. Kid," the bartender said, turning towards Mercer, "you heading out right now? I've got what I owe you here." He slid a small box, wrapped in cloth, onto the counter, which the scavenger wordlessly tucked into his backpack.

"Thanks, Harry. You're a good 'un," he mumbled, eyelids drooping.

The bartender just chuckled, crossing his arms over the aging tuxedo coat.

"Right back at you, kiddo. You be careful walking home, or wherever your bed is, okay? Lately, folks have been having trouble with strangers at night. Nothing too bad, just a couple of stick-ups."

He barely comprehended what was being said, but nodded all the same. The liquor was warm and sloshing in his belly, and he could feel his whole body trying to slump over onto the countertop. With a slow, deliberate movement, he grabbed his pack from the floor, slid it over one shoulder, and stood. Pete extended a hand, which he shook, and then Harry followed suit.

"Goodnight, buddy. Hope this makes up for all the times you've covered me."

"Sure, it's alright," he murmured, blinking slowly.

"See you around, kid."

He waved to them both, then shuffled outside. The cool night air was a welcome change from the stuffy, smoky interior of the Eagles, and the streets had thinned out a lot. There was still a decent line stretching outside the Central, nowhere near what it had been earlier, and he could make out the forms of a couple of bouncers, shorter than Brandt's imposing height, standing guard. A light breeze blew from the east, causing him to wrap his arms over his military fatigue shirt and shiver a little; to the west, the clouds from before had moved towards the horizon, revealing the twinkling stars overhead. Mercer marveled at the sight for a few moments, standing just outside the bar and huddling next to the doorway; the stars had always been a favorite sight of his. It was time to get to sleep, though, let the liquor do its work; with any luck, he'd be too boozed up to remember what he dreamed about. Something he had learned a long time ago was that, the older he got, the more he took to bed with him. Something he found out about, years later, was that the rule held true for everyone else out there, too. He'd once thought about the raiders who lived out in the wastes and shot up or got wasted every night, wandering how much _they_ took to bed with them; however, the sentiment passed quickly, after he saw one of them feasting on the still-moving bodies of a caravan company. That thought stirred him from his stargazing, and the cold spurred him to get moving north down Line Street.

He passed by the former event hall for the Eagles; it was a brick building with a facade, if one could call it that, of corrugated siding which had begun to lose its rivets and peel away from the edifice like dead skin. Before the War, it had seen the larger parties and get-togethers for the Club, if some of the photographs in the entry hall for the bar were to be believed. Of late, however, it had been converted into a storage unit, mostly a catch-all for all the useless junk the locals had gotten tired of looking at. More than a few buildings spread out over town served the same purpose; they weren't really worthwhile for a scavenger to go through, as he had learned first-hand. The locals were crafty salvagers, picking off all the good bits before junking out whatever they didn't need. Pretty much everyone was, though; living in the wasteland, you learned real quick what parts off an old fridge or out of a TV set could get you a week's worth of food if you stripped them off and sold them to the right people. Scavenging, as a profession, had been a personal choice for Mercer, but scavenging, as a means of survival here and there, was somethign everyone picked up at some point. As he crossed the intersection of Line and Jackson, he stirred from his recollections and looked north.

The closest thing he had to a home in Olum, after he and Laura had started drawing apart, was Old House; it was probably one of the oldest surviving residences in town, and Millie Langford, the owner, was very insistent on maintaining the "surviving" part of that title. She and her husband Phil had run a small, yet profitable, caravan company a couple of decades prior, back when the roads were lawless, the Fort's Vault hadn't yet opened, and everyone else struggled just to survive. The money they made went into the house, which, after Phil's death from a heart attack some six years before, had been converted into a bed-and-breakfast to help make ends meet. Unlike most of the places Mercer had paid for a bed in, at one time or another, Old House had downright excellent service; pretty much every guest who stayed there was a repeat customer, whenever they happened to be in town. The cause of that was all Millie, who was a respectable cook, an obsessive housekeeper, and a notorious tightwad; not surprisingly, Ortley called on her every so often, and the two got along famously. Didn't hurt matters, either, that she was a little older than he was, probably in her early 70s. Mercer had, on a lark, asked Ortley about Miss Langford and got a surprising amount of insight into their relationship which, contrary to the murmurs of the town rumor mill, was completely platonic.

Old House, itself, was a rambling, ancient Victorian manor set back from the northeast corner of Line and Jackson, just north of the Eagles Club and a short, if unsteady, walk for Mercer. Millie had finally relented, a couple of years ago, on letting the scavenger come in at odd hours of the night, leave her pay under a vase in the foyer, and grab a room key; granted, he had recovered a large delivery of supplies, mostly pre-War silverware and stuff, from a sacked caravan just before that. The grounds of Old House had, much like the courthouse, once been beautiful; the long-dead husks of a couple of tremendous oak trees sat between the wraparound porch (not sagging, unlike many he'd seen on other houses) and the street, and a large plot of dirt surrounded the entire property, all that remained of a once-verdant lawn. A candle was flickering from one of the upstairs rooms, its faint orange glow seeping through the lace curtains around the window and onto the smartly-kept blue clapboard outside; it had been a town project, out of Miss Langford's personal coffers (a shock to the locals who would joke about her miserly ways) and people had been only too happy to join in, make something in the place feel new and alive. Millie, herself, was most likely in bed already, while most of her tenants were quiet types like Mercer, men who rarely went out at night and more rarely had visitors. She liked it that way, as did Mercer; a place with too much activity, too many people, like the Central, was trouble waiting to happen, and certainly not anywhere that he wanted to lay his head down.

He shuffled down the cracked and uneven concrete walk that led through the dirt yard, then up onto the porch, which creaked slightly with age. The front door, a solid mahogany thing with leaded glass panes that glimmered with the light cast off from the lamps inside, was unlocked and swung open silently. The scavenger stepped into the foyer and shut the door behind him gently, before looking around at the decor that was almost as familiar to him as that of the Eagles; dark oak panels rose up the walls to about two-thirds of the way, where they were capped off with a solid piece of moulding, and above that was cream-colored wallpaper patterned with floral designs and fleurs-de-lis. The ceiling was plaster, once gleaming white that had aged gracefully to a soft shade of tan, and in the center, an ornate plaster ceiling medallion had been affixed, from which an elegant gold chandelier with crystal lamps hung. The fixture was off, along with all the other lights in the house, but someone had thoughtfully lit some candles which were scattered around the entry. Under Mercer's dirty boots, parquet flooring stretched out across the room; it gleamed, slightly, with the flicker of the candlelight, suggesting that Millie had recently waxed it. A large, faded Oriental rug sat in the center of the room, worn tassels splaying out at all angles from its narrow ends, and atop that was a round antique table which sported a small porcelain vase. Along the eastern wall of the foyer was the staircase, which ran up and to the left, where it met the second floor. The front door was set in the south wall, where it met the eastern wall, and west of the front door was a large double-hung window that had a velvet camelback loveseat sitting in front of it. To the north was the archway leading to the main hall, which led off to the dining room, the kitchen, the parlor (Millie's bedroom, kept locked at all times except when she had company, typically Ortley) and the downstairs bathroom, along with a couple of other rooms that Mercer had never seen inside.

Mercer fished in his pockets, pulled out a few bars, and slid them under the vase. Millie kept the keys in an old letter cubbyhole that someone had salvaged around town, set up against the western wall, and after a moment of groping in the faint glimmer of the candles, Mercer wrapped his fingers around a small skeleton key, which he pocketed. All of the bedrooms for the guests had their own key, at least, theoretically. In reality, the skeleton keys were similar enough in shape and design that, with a little jiggling and a bit of persistence, any of the rooms could be unlocked by any of the keys. Mercer had learned that a long time ago when another guest, after doing his business one night, accidentally let himself into the scavenger's room and nearly got a head full of buckshot for it. The shock had been enough to Mercer that he usually slid some of Millie's antique furniture in front of the bedroom door after he settled in for the night. At present, however, Mercer was bracing himself against the ornate balustrade about two-thirds of the way up the staircase, and the barricade was the furthest thing from his mind; all he cared about was taking a leak and getting to bed before he passed out. After a moment, his body stopped swaying and he continued his ascent, stopping at the landing for the second floor, which consisted of a narrow hallway that ran longitudinally across the entire upper floor from the stairs to the western end of the house. Doors flanked the hall down its entire length, one of which was open, the rest, being bedrooms, were closed and most likely locked. Shuffling slowly, he made his way to the door that was ajar to take care of one of his pressing needs.

The upstairs bathroom was a little more spacious than the one downstairs, and kept as meticulously as the rest of the house, with running water on demand, no less; since the Fort people had built their water plant on the south side of town, most of the residents had been willing to pay the fee to get a small water tank installed that they could have water pumped into through the pre-War pipes that the Fort technicians had fixed, but few were willing to pay the monthly amount for continuous water service, straight from the plant's reservoirs. It made sense, to a lot of people, to have their own water supply that they could use and replenish as needed, but Millie hadn't wanted the hassle of keeping up with the tank. After the bed and breakfast opened, that decision translated into a lot of happy customers, as there was never a need to forego showers or a visit to the toilet due to a depleted water supply. The decor of the bathroom was tasteful, yet simple; white rectangular tiles ran up the wall from the baseboard to about halfway, and from there to the ceiling was yellow wallpaper with blue dotted lines that formed vertical stripes. The floor was something of a fixture of the bathroom, not in the way the toilet was, perhaps, but it and Mercer were no strangers; it was made up of little hexagonal tiles that someone had painstakingly laid in an interesting pattern: six black tiles were arranged to form a rough circle, with a white tile in the center of that and more white tiles separating each black circle. After a few particularly heavy nights at the Eagles, Mercer had nursed a hangover in Millie's bathroom, staring deep and meaningfully into the tiles between upchucks. At present, however, he was more concerned with not staining the floor with his urine than he was with contemplating the untold existential meaning of its design. Millie hated few things more than a smelly, unkempt bathroom, and with most of her guests being men, that was an unpleasant reality she had to face more than she liked.

With the last of his rented liquor swirling down into the town's sewage pipes, Mercer zipped up and exhaled, feeling relieved and tired. He was still a bit unsteady on his feet, and with no other pressing biological needs compelling him, sleep was already embracing him. As he washed up in the sink basin, he rested his head against the cool glass of the bathroom mirror, looking up for a moment to stare at his reflection in the mottled, desilvering surface. Brandt had been right, he really _did_ look old. His face was fairly square in shape, maybe not as much as Harry's, who could have passed for a prizefighter if he was forty years younger, but it certainly wasn't gaunt like Pete, who always looked like he had skipped his last two meals. Wrinkles had started to come out over his forehead, again, not as much as Harry, but they were there, no doubt about it; he had creases, frown lines, Laura had once called them, from the stocky bridge of his nose down to his scowling mouth, where just the faintest hint of an overbite showed. He hadn't shaved in days, and his stubble had grown out into a short, scraggly beard that itched occasionally. His hair, short and messy atop his head, had been mostly brown when he had met Laura; she had called the little streaks of grey "distinguished" and teased him about it. Lately, though, his hair was mostly just grey, more of a slate color than anything. His hazel eyes were narrow, they'd always been narrow, but enough years of squinting under the shade of a hand against his forehead, the hot wasteland sun beating down on him, might have had something to do with his perpetual stink-eye. Maybe it was the fact that he never let himself cut loose, live it up, get all wide-eyed and crazy; the moment he let his guard down, that's when things went bad. Just to rub it in, he gave himself a big, goofy grin, really more of a sneer, in the mirror. The doc over in the Fort had done wonders for his teeth with that freaky Vault tech; he had to admit, for a world without toothpaste and modern dentistry, they sure knew how to keep folks from losing their pearly whites. The wrinkles got more pronounced as he grinned, wider and wider, trying to imagine what he'd look like if he let loose and partied like an animal. Yeah, he was definitely looking a lot older. Who wouldn't, though, at 45? Laura had forgotten his age, it seemed, when she asked him about it before. But then, he couldn't remember if he'd ever actually told her his age. There were a lot of things, too many things, that he had never told her.

The candle in the bathroom flickered, casting shadows over the mirror and distorting his reflection for a moment; he jumped, it was almost as though his guilt had taken a physical form, a darkness encircling him. With a snort and a sigh, he rubbed at his eyes; it was too late to be doing this kind of stuff, and he was too drunk to keep it up. All he wanted was a bed, and the sweet, sweet embrace of drunken sleep. Leaving the bathroom, he turned to the right, towards the west; there, at the end of the hall, a single window let in moonlight that cast strange shadows from the dead oak trees in the yard. Under that, a spindly table sat against the wall, which he used as a temporary resting place for his back; his shoulders were killing him, and he had to find Millie's key again. After some digging, he finally located it and unlocked the door beside the window, letting himself into a darkened bedroom; thick drapes had been drawn across the windows, keeping the moonlight out, and Mercer's first task after collecting his pack and locking the door was to open those up. Working in the faint blue light, he undressed, kicking his boots into a corner, laying his pack by the bedside, and removing his cargo pants and fatigue shirt; as he sat on the bed, attired in just his boxers, he ran his fingers over the disjointed roadmap of scars across his chest. Most of them were years old, having healed up since then into the raised red lines that snaked across his torso, but the memories were still fresh. Brandt had been more right than he knew; Mercer didn't just look old, he felt old, too. His body, resting on the soft cotton sheets of the bed, was finally at rest. He had barely closed his eyes, after covering up, before he passed out.


	7. Chapter 7 (End of Day 1)

_He woke up suddenly, his dreams forgotten. A sound had woken him, something clattering in the kitchen._

 _He sat up, the Captain Cosmos bedspread sliding off onto the floor, and waited._

 _Crickets were chirping outside, and there was moonlight coming through the window to the right of his bed;_

 _it cast eerie shadows over the racing-car rug that Mom and Dad had given him for his birthday._

 _There was a creak of branches outside, and a gust of wind rattled the windowpane._

 _He continued to wait, uneasy. Clutching at his Junior Space Cadet pajamas, he could make out voices._

 _The faint, incomprehensible, droning of voices were filtering in through the closed door;_

 _the hall light shone through the gap at the bottom. Mom always turned off the hall light when she went to bed._

 _He slid out of bed, his feet cold on the aspen wood flooring, and took a few steps towards the door._

 _They'd ground him for sure if they caught him sneaking around, but he wanted to know, for sure._

 _It wasn't like they were shouting._

 _Dad had been in a good mood when he was watching his news stories._

 _Maybe they just knocked something over, this time. It happened; grown ups were big and clumsy, sometimes._

 _But he wanted to make sure, just in case._

 _He slid his fingers over the round, brass knob and, again, waited. The voices were still faint._

 _He couldn't make out what they were saying, but they were even and slow. Not fast, not loud._

 _They were just talking, but, even still, what had that noise been?_

 _The tree outside creaked again in the wind; he really, really hated that tree, it kept him up sometimes._

 _Dad said that he just needed to grow up, a tree can't hurt you._

 _Maybe not in real life, but sometimes, after a **big fight** and mom put him to bed,_

 _and dad drove off into the city,_

 _and he was trying not to cry too much, after all the yelling,_

 _he had bad dreams about that tree. Dreams about it reaching through his window._

 _Grabbing him, with those long, spindly branches._

 _Pulling him out of his bed._

 _Taking him into the night._

 _He woke up screaming, sometimes. Mom always came to check up on him._

 _Dad did not. He was glad for that._

 _The talking continued. Finally, he decided, he would go check it out. He turned the knob, opening the door._

 _The hall light was bright, and he squinted his eyes, frowning. After a moment, he was fine._

 _The hall leading to the living room was all lit up, and that picture_

 _of Boca Raton that Mom liked so much was right where it always was._

 _He couldn't hear the TV going, so they must have both been in the kitchen._

 _He walked down the hall, just a bit, looking back towards his room door. It was plain and white and nothing like_

 _the doors in Grandma's house, which were all old and fancy._

 _He liked going to Grandma's, and so did Mom; she always seemed much happier there, without Dad._

 _He just liked being there because Grandma always let him explore her house, and it was a funny house._

 _It wasn't new like their house, it had all these weird old things in it._

 _She called them "antiques" but Mom told him, once, that half of it was junk; she was smiling when she said it, though._

 _The kitchen was past the living room, through either the entry door or the dining room door, either one._

 _The living room had a big TV in it, and that's where he watched Captain Cosmos, and his cowboy shows._

 _After Dad got home, though, he had to go play trucks outside, or play with his toys in his room._

 _Dad would sit and watch his news stories. It wasn't that he couldn't watch with Dad,_

 _it was just that the news stories were boring. They talked about soldiers a lot, and a war, but_

 _they didn't show any pictures like his comics did. People just talked a whole lot._

 _Dad's books were in a shelf in the back of the living room. He had tried reading one, once._

 _It had a lot of strange words he didn't understand; all he knew was that Dad used those books for work._

 _The dining room was past the living room, and he hated that room the most._

 _When Mom had her bridge club over, they would all sit at the table and smoke and play cards._

 _Unlike Dad and his news stories, Mom made him play in his room when her bridge club came over._

 _Sometimes, Dad would get home early and say that he wanted a "family sit down dinner"._

 _That was annoying, because he'd make everyone sit at the table until he was done talking and eating._

 _It could take an hour, or more, and Dad talked about work so much, or news stories._

 _The nights that Dad worked late, he liked; once he was done eating, he could play._

 _Once, Grandma came over for dinner, but Dad really didn't like that._

 _After she had left, Dad and Mom had a **big fight** about her coming over._

 _That night, there had been a lot of noise coming from the kitchen after he was put to bed._

 _Loud noises._

 _Yelling._

 _When he had come out for breakfast the next day, there was a big mess. He ate Sugar Bombs in the living room._

 _Mom didn't say anything when she woke up and saw him._

 _She cleaned up the kitchen and smoked a cigarette, then made him lunch._

 _Dad didn't come out for breakfast that day; Mom said that he had stayed in the city overnight._

 _He got to the dining room table and looked through the kitchen door._

 _Mom and Dad were sitting at the breakfast table, looking at papers and talking._

 _There was a big metal dish on the counter, the kind that Mom usually made turkeys in for the PTA dinners._

 _That must have been what made the noise. He felt better, seeing them talking._

 _Just then, Dad turned and looked at him, then looked confused._

 _Mom turned around in her chair and looked at him._

 _He felt embarrassed, and tried to move away from the dining room table._

 **" _Will, what are you doing out of bed?"_**

 _Dad asked._

 _"I heard a noise, I went to go check it out."_

 _"He must have heard the dish, Leo. Here, Will, let's get you back to bed."_

 _Mom said._

 _"Are you guys okay? What are those papers?"_

 _He asked._

 ** _"Your mother and I are working on taxes. It's grown-up stuff, you wouldn't understand."_**

 _Dad said._

 _Mom got out of her chair and walked over to him, her hands out. She was smiling._

 _"Were you worried about us?"_

 _She asked him, leading him back towards the bedroom._

 _"Yeah, I wasn't sure what that sound was. I wanted to see if you were alright."_

 _They passed through the living room, past the big TV, past the square white couch that Dad would sit on with his drinks._

 _Dad's drinks were something Mom hated. He hated them, too, but he didn't say anything._

 _Mom said things about them, sometimes, but not too much._

 _When Dad had a lot of his drinks, there was a chance that there would be a **big fight**._

 _Sometimes, though, when he had a lot of his drinks, he just laughed a lot and told jokes._

 _Well, kind of jokes. They weren't nice jokes, like he and Dickie told each other._

 _When Dad made jokes about him, or Mom, they were mean. Sometimes, he cried._

 _Dad would tell him to "suck it up" and laugh some more._

 _"We're alright, dear. Your father and I are trying to work out some money, so we'll have plenty for Christmas."_

 _Mom said, ushering him to his bedroom door. He went inside, she followed him._

 _"Why do grown-ups care about money so much?"  
_

 _He asked, climbing up onto the bed. Mom smiled and kissed his forehead._

 _"Someday, Will, you'll figure that out for yourself. Who knows?_

 _Maybe you'll get rich and famous, and you won't care about money when you grow up._

 _Now, it's time for bed. Don't worry about your father and I, we'll be alright."_

 _"Okay, Mom."_

 _"Goodnight, Will."_

 _"Goodnight, Mom."_

 _"I love you."_

 _"I love you too."_

 _She smiled, petted him on the head, and tucked him back in, pulling the bedspread from the floor._

 _Then she walked over to the door, blew him a kiss, and closed the door behind her._

 _The wind wasn't blowing as strongly as it had been earlier._

 _Mom turned off the hall light, making the moonlight coming through his window the only illumination._

 _He settled in, his eyelids drooping._

 _The crickets were still chirping._

 _He started to drift off to sleep, when something pulled at him._

 _He wasn't in bed, it wasn't night. It was a different time and place._

 _A familiar time and place._

* * *

 _He felt his whole body shudder._

 _The whole world shuddered.  
_

 _Everything got bright, he couldn't see anything but white._

 _He screamed, but he couldn't hear that. He couldn't hear anything but a roar, like a train going by._

 _He got scared, he screamed out for Mom and Dad. He felt arms around him, not saw, but felt them._

 _The arms were large, an adult's, and delicate. Mom._

 _Mom pulled him down to the floor, he was crying. She put her arms over his head and pushed on him with her body._

 _There was something flying through the air, cutting at his face, his arms, his body. It hurt._

 _Mom pushed him under the couch and he covered his head with his hands._

 _The light faded away, slowly._

 _The sound faded away, slowly._

 _He began to see again. Everything was lit in an orange glow._

 _He was screaming and sobbing and shaking and Mom was grabbing onto him with both hands._

 _She was bleeding, she had little cuts all over her, and she was crying too, and shaking._

 _He reached out to her and she pulled him out from under the couch and held him tight._

 _His hearing returned, slowly._

 _" **My baby, my baby, stay with me, Will, stay with me."**_

 _"Mom, what's happening? What was that?"_

 _" Oh, thank God, thank God. Will, we need to go. We need to go somewhere safe."_

 _"What happened? What was that noise? I'm bleeding, Mom."_

 _She held him close and rested her head on his and ran her fingers through his hair as she cried._

 _He was crying, too, and hugged her tight, kneeling on the floor with her._

 _"We need to go, right now Will. We can't stay here, okay? Get your suitcase that we use for Grandma's."_

 _"Mom, where are we going? Where's Dad? What's happening?"_

 ** _"Please, Will, we need to go now. We need to get your bag and our things and leave._**

 ** _Your Dad will meet us at the safe place. He knows where it is."_**

 _"But what about all these cuts, Mom? It hurts."_

 _"I know, baby, I know. I'll take care of it, but right now, **we have to go."**_

 _He pulled himself up and nodded. Mom was really scared._

 _He had never seen her this scared before, not even after the **big fights**._

 _That made him scared, even more. But she was telling him to get his suitcase._

 _It was in his closet, back in the bedroom._

 _He looked out the window and saw a big, bright cloud in the shape of a mushroom._

 _It looked like the ones they showed on the TV sometimes._

 _It looked like the ones in his comic books._

 _But the difference was, when he saw it in those places, it wasn't scary._

 _This one was big, bigger than anything he'd ever seen, and dark, really dark._

 _He couldn't even see the sun or the clouds or the sky. It was just all dark, or burning orange._

 _It scared him more than the tree did, even in his nightmares. He felt some primal sense of panic, just looking at it._

 _He ran down the hall, ignoring the screaming wind that was blowing through the shattered windows._

 _He was going to open his door, but it had already been blown open by the wind._

 _He ran to his closet, and grabbed his suitcase, small and brown._

 _Mom was already there at the doorway, holding a bunch of cans._

 _"Pack clothes, Will, and your Bible, and then help me get these together."_

 _He did that. He wanted to take his toys, but he wasn't sure which ones to take._

 _He didn't know how long Mom was going to make him stay at this place of hers._

 _He didn't know where Dad was._

 _He wanted this to be a bad dream, but his cuts were still bleeding and they hurt too much not to be real._

 _He cried, sitting on his car rug. He wanted to play with his trucks, he didn't want to leave._

 _Mom grabbed him, hard, and pulled him out of his room and put his suitcase in the hall._

 _She got him to put cans of food in bags, and then she got a bunch of suitcases from her room._

 _They were the ones that she got out when she went with him to Grandma's._

 _She ran outside with him and tried to start the car, but nothing happened._

 _He was still holding his suitcase, and he was still crying._

 _She turned around to look at him, her feet crushing the broken glass of the windshield she had brushed off the seats._

 _"Will, we need to go into town now. We have to walk there. Your dad will meet us there."_

 _"Mom, what's happening?"_

 _He asked, confused and hurt and scared._

 _She sighed._

 _"Someone did a **bad thing**. We need to go to a safe place, so we won't get hurt more."_

 _He nodded, grabbed his suitcase and one of the food bags, and followed her._

 _There were people outside, neighbors of theirs, who were running around._

 _Some of them had guns; he had seen guns on TV and in his comics, but never in real life._

 _Like the cloud, they were scary in real life, too, but not as much._

 _Mom pulled a gun out of one of the bags, too, and he pulled back, afraid._

 _"You're not going to hurt me with that, are you?"_

 _Mom stared at him, speechless._

 _"Will, this will keep us safe from the **bad people.** The ones who made the cloud. I'm going to protect you."_

 _That made it okay, then, but he was still wary._

 _They ran with their bags towards Maple Street, where Dickie lived._

 _Except, as he knew already, Dickie was out of town on a Scouting trip._

 _He wasn't good at praying, he had been learning at Sunday School, but he asked God to keep Dickie and Dad safe._

 _Mom seemed to like that, and she asked God to do that, too._

 _They were running more, and his feet hurt, but his cuts weren't bleeding any more; they still hurt, though._

 _A man was chasing another man further down the street with a gun._

 _Mom told him to look away. He did, but he heard a loud crack and screamed._

 _When he looked back, the man with the gun was gone and the other man was lying on the ground._

 _It wasn't like his cowboy shows at all, where the bad guy would fall down and be still._

 _The guy on the ground was moving around a lot and coughing up blood._

 _He felt sick, and Mom told him not to look as they kept running into town._

 _There were a lot of cars everywhere, but they were empty. A lot of people were screaming and shouting._

 _There were sounds of glass breaking, and people were shooting guns._

 _They got closer to a big building that a whole bunch of people were gathered around, with bags like Mom._

 _She took him there and there was a lot of shouting, too, but about a "shelter"_

 _Everyone was pushing and shoving to get in._

 _He looked behind him and saw the big, black cloud back towards his house._

 _He heard someone shooting a gun, and someone else screamed._

 _He really, really wanted to wake up._

 _Mom grabbed his shoulders and looked him in the eyes. She was really upset, but not with him._

 _"Will, listen to me. If anything happens to me, you run and find a family with kids like you, okay?_

 _You run to them and tell them that you're waiting for your Dad._

 _Tell them that you need to get inside the shelter."_

 _He started crying again and held her tight._

 _"Mom, don't go away! Don't leave!"_

 _She held him close and kissed his forehead and squeezed him in an embrace._

 _"Baby, if I ever leave, it's because I had to keep you safe from the **bad people."**_

 _"Don't leave, Mom. Stay with me here."_

 _"I will, as long as I live, sweet child."_

 _The group of people moved into the building, running, pushing, shoving, and Mom grabbed his hand to keep him from getting lost._

 _They all moved into the basement of the big building, down some stairs, and through a big metal door._

 _There was a funny smell, like chemicals, in the big room after that._

 _Everyone was moving around and talking and pushing and shoving._

 _There were a lot of beds, but not like his bed._

 _These beds were made of curtains tied to metal legs on the ground._

 _They didn't look very comfortable, and they weren't, when he sat on one._

 _Mom sat next to him and put their stuff on the ground and held him._

 _"When can we go back home? When is Dad coming to meet us?"_

 _Mom looked at him, she looked sad._

 _"This will have to be our new home for now. Someday, we'll go home._

 _But until then, I need you to be really patient, okay?_

 _Because we both have to wait for your Dad, and I don't know how long we have to live here."_

 _"Are we safe here?"_

 _He asked, finally calming down._

 _"Yes, we're safe here."_

 _She replied, holding him close._

 _He was going to say more, but he felt himself losing shape, the world shifting, everything fading._


	8. Chapter 8

Mercer jolted awake with a gasp, his fingers gripping the sheets around him tightly. Sunlight was already streaming through the windows, illuminating the dust motes that floated around in the room and eliciting a cry from the scavenger, who squinted against the brightness and dropped back into bed with a grunt. He covered his face with one of Millie's pillows, the smell of his sweat mixing with the fragrance of whatever soap she had used to wash the linens with, and sighed. His relationship with liquor was, by far, the longest one he had ever maintained at thirty years; it was also the most abusive relationship he had ever had. He ignored it until he needed something, then started hitting the liquor, and the more he hit it, the more it hit him back. At present, his hangover was manageable: a headache stabbing its way from his brain down into his eyeballs that absolutely dreaded bright light, a churning feeling of nausea in the pit of his stomach, and a lingering malaise that made him want to curl up under the covers and hide away from the world. However, as he tried to do just that, he remembered there was still lunch with Laura and Luke at the Nook. He hadn't thought ahead and asked for a time the night before; they both had been too busy with the emotions that had built up over the years.

A door slamming down the hall caused him to jump, his hand skirting under the covers to find nothing but the sheet under him. With a flare of panic, he threw the pillow aside and sat bolt upright, his breath coming in staccato pants, before he slowly calmed down. His pack was sitting right where he had dropped it last night, along with his belt and the still-holstered N99; in his daze, he had gone to bed unarmed. He slapped his forehead and groaned, both at the surging headache and at his stupidity. Nevermind that it was Olum, nevermind that he hadn't been attacked in his sleep in years; had someone wanted to barge in and do away with him, he would have been like a lamb to the slaughter. Enough years on the trail, enough close calls, enough friends lost, sometimes killed no more than a few feet away from him, taken in the night by an opportunistic bandit or a savage dog, had taught him to never, _ever_ go to bed without some kind of protection. His relationship with alcohol had just taken a major hit in the trust department, and he was going to have to think very carefully about their next rendezvous. In the meantime, however, his stomach was doing somersaults, his head felt like a tin can after a kid had put an afternoon's worth of BBs into it, and he was starving; his meeting with Laura had done more than distract him from getting a time for the lunch meeting, it'd distracted him from eating dinner.

With a languished grunt, Mercer pulled himself forward on the bed, letting his legs hang over the side, and stared at his bare, dirty feet. The quiet ticking of the clock on the nightstand drew his attention and, through his bleary vision, he could just make out the time: a little after ten. That would mean that, if he hurried, he could rouse up what was left of Millie's breakfast downstairs and maybe some coffee, if it was on tap. As much as he hated the idea of moving around in the daylight, his ravenous hunger and hangover weren't going to fix themselves by him moping around the bedroom all day. Slowly, methodically, he stood and shuffled over to the windows, hands over his eyes, to draw the curtains shut. The thick velvet of the drapes was soft, rich, and heavy to his fingers; an old-fashioned design, lots of fleurs-de-lis and flowery stuff, had been stitched into it. Millie hadn't owned Old House before the War, that much he knew, and while the place had been in fairly decent shape when she and Phil had found it, he also knew that she'd poured a lot of bars into getting it all decked out with the antiques that it was glutted with at present. Just like grandma's.

He shuddered at the thought, slumping one shoulder into the wall and cradling his head with his free hand. The dreams the night before had been intense, vivid, nothing like they usually were after a hard night of drinking; most of the time, liquor numbed the memories, made them all messy and incoherent, which kept him from getting mixed up in the pain. When he was sober, his dreams were haunting and liked to overstay their welcome, usually ending when he forced himself to wake up, drenched in sweat and panting in a dark room. The dreams he had just awoken from, however, were another beast entirely; it was as if he was back there again, in their ranch house on the outskirts of Pittsburgh, right before everything burned away in that blinding flash. Everything had been right where he had remembered it, everyone had acted exactly as they had, forty years ago, and he hadn't seen one shriveled hand grasping at him from a dark corner or heard a blood-choked voice gurgling accusations from the beyond. The dreams had almost been, in a twisted sense, benign; despite the vivid clarity, he hadn't felt any lurking self-loathing or undercurrent of guilt.

From outside, a voice was shouting something he couldn't make out; it was met with a reply at about the same volume from someone close to the house, probably on the front lawn. Most, if not all, of Millie's other tenants had already cleared out and were going about their business; most of them were caravaneers or scavengers like him, just passing through, probably already packed up and ready to hit the trail. He hadn't forgotten his days hauling scrap around the wastes, taking the Brahmin trails like thousands of others; early mornings and late nights had just been part of the job. Scavenging didn't have a set schedule, you moved on your own, not with a big, vulnerable caravan; depending on your environment, you could spend a day on your feet and two in town, or half a week inside what was left of an office building or a school to wait out some trouble. With Pete's cart leaving the next day, however, it'd be back to the early morning schedule he had loathed so much from his contract days.

"Might as well soak it up while it lasts," Mercer murmured to himself, sneering.

A loud knock at his door caused him to jump. From his position at the window, he spun around, grabbed the N99 from its holster by his pack, and stuffed it in the back of his boxers before opening the door a crack. A older woman, short like Miss Ruby but not nearly as extravagantly dressed, was glaring up at him.

"Oh, it's you," she sighed. "I should have figured, when I checked under the vase this morning. Are you going to be much longer, Mercer? I've got rooms to clean."

"Hello to you, too, Millie," he retorted, slumping his shoulders and easing back into a casual position from his guarded one just before. "Any breakfast or coffee left over?"

The woman rolled her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest.

"Another night of drinking? I should have figured. Wait here."

She ducked into the bathroom for a moment, then came back and shoved her hand under his nose with a grimace; in it were a couple of aspirin tablets, probably long past their expiry date, but still better than nothing. The scavenger gulped them down, dry, and coughed for a moment as they got stuck in his throat. The older woman waited, looking quite bored with the situation.

"Once you get yourself cleaned up and packed up, go downstairs and I'll have some food and coffee waiting for you. It's not going to be hot, I'll tell you that, but it'll be better than whatever you got yourself into last night. Don't take all day, either."

With that, Millie walked back down the hall, towards the staircase, while Mercer gently closed the door. Between Ruby, Millie, and, to a lesser degree, Laura, he had a veritable brigade of women looking to keep him on the straight and narrow. As he took a few steps towards his pack, the chafing of the pistol's frame against his rear end caused him to whip it out and stare at it for a moment. It was a sad old thing, a patchwork job from a lot of fixer-upper guns that had probably been pawned off or picked up from dead bodies after heated bouts of combat. The duct tape grip had been his own work after Jim had tried to demand another half for the original grips, which, in all honesty, hadn't looked like much of an improvement over the do-it-yourself option. Despite its patchwork assembly, the thing had saved his hide on more than a few occasions, and had only jammed a few times. He was still standing, still had all his moving parts, so it had done the job, but he had to admit, an upgrade would be very nice; he ended his inspection by working the slide, ejecting the same dirty 10mm round that had stared up at him the day before out by Miggs' base, and letting it slide forward. He pressed a button on the side of the grip, causing the magazine to slide out into his other hand, and then racked the slide again to empty the gun. The satisfying _click clack_ of the action resonated in the dusty room, and for good measure, he trained his gun on the full-length mirror across from him, dry firing it a couple of times. Despite the headache that Millie's aspirin was slowly working on, and his gnawing stomach pain, he managed a wry grin at himself; a grown man in his skivvies playing cowboy with himself.

Sitting in his boxers in the shade of Millie's antique curtains and playing with his gun like he was five years old was exactly how he wanted to spend the day. However, duty called and his hangover was going to linger much longer than he wanted if he didn't do something about it. With a sigh, he grabbed the bullets he had cycled out and chambered one, reloading the other in the magazine, which was slid back into the gun; that, in turn, went into its holster. Mercer rifled through his pack and pulled out a dingy white undershirt, a set of boxers, and a worn set of denim jeans, which were all set aside. A hint of red gingham peeked up at him from under the rest of his salvage. Mercer picked through the bag and, with a chuckle, pulled it out to get a closer look. It was Harry's payment to him, done up in a faded rag that the old man had no doubt used to wipe down the bar with. The checked pattern was still visible through all the alcohol stains, but the cloth itself was starting to fray and already sported several small holes across its surface. He untied the rag and pulled out a box of Buckslayer 12 gauge shotgun shells, the "Shure Shot" variety. The brand must have been especially popular before the War, because just about every box of shotgun shells he came across was the same brand. A quick check inside of the musty box, which was starting to fall apart at the seams, revealed around twenty or so red plastic shells, which went into a pile on the floor beside him. The other item in Harry's package was the fiver, a hefty bar that was the same height and length as the single bars he had bought lunch with the day before, but was a lot thicker. The surface proudly denoted that it was five ounces of silver, .900 fine, and tender that was as legal as the rest of the Fort's money.

It was funny, in a way; in the towns and cities he had passed through on his way to Indiana, he hadn't really come across anywhere that relied on a hard currency system. The law of the wasteland was, more or less, if you weren't going to kill or steal what you needed, you bartered for it. People would usually just work out in trade any discrepancy between purchases, like having someone fix your generator or getting first shot at the next batch of scrap they pulled into town. Then again, though, the Fort wasn't like most other towns; they'd been smart, whoever had been in charge of the place right after the War, and had built up the town's defenses around the highways that ran around the old city. 69 covered the west, snaking up to the north towards Auburn, and 469 covered the south by the old airport and around the east, meeting up at a point due north of the city. Inside of that ring of roadway, the city flourished, some parts better than others, while the trade routes like 30 from Olum, 69 from Auburn, and 33 from Goshen all fed into the city center, albeit through several gates and lines of armed guards. Even before the Vault under Purdue had opened and all those scientists spilled out, the Fort had been doing well for itself, although it was a lot more isolationist in those days, according to Ortley. All that happened years before Mercer had ever gotten to the region; all that he'd seen for himself from the Fort was consistent with what it was at present, the scientific and economic capital of pretty much everything within a couple hundred miles. Sure, Columbus had its own thing going, and, when they weren't busy picking over the ruins of Polis, the folks down in Louisville were said to be doing alright for themselves; neither of them were particularly interested in taking other settlements under their wing. South Bend was big enough that they didn't need the Fort's protection or engineers, but not big enough to expand, and Troit was a warzone, from what he'd heard, so they weren't really any competition. The Fort was the place coining money, laying down laws for the towns under its protection, and setting the tribute levels that Ortley had been so worried about the other day.

Thinking about his conversation with the old man caused Mercer to frown and shift uneasily on the floor, letting his thoughts dissipate. The aspirin was starting to take effect, and his headache was slowly fading away, although his stomach was still grumbling for a solid meal. He dragged his pack over and pulled something else out of the pile of salvage, a double-barreled shotgun with a sawed-off stock. The metal still showed a hint of bluing in its nooks and crannies, and the maple stock was cracked in places, pockmarked in others from rough contacts with concrete. The scavenger flicked the lever behind the rear sight, then tipped the barrel forward as the shell ejector emitted a single loud _click_ on the empty chambers. The gun had been empty for weeks, after he'd used the last of his shells to shoot a wild hog that had crossed his path out in the wastes; he'd eaten well that night, certainly, but he'd been careful to avoid confrontations. Back in the early days, when people still pretended to have a bit of civility about them before butchering each other, an empty gun could be used to threaten an attacker. It'd been the unwritten rule for a long time that, if someone you were facing off against had a gun and wasn't using it, they were probably out of ammo and bluffing, and that almost always led to their swift demise. With a deliberate hand, Mercer loaded the shells into the gun, his weathered, callused fingers gliding over the large, smooth primer of the cartridges. If Pete's little expedition ended up going sour, like he had been debating about the night before, he wanted to be sure he was locked and loaded for it.

It had been a bad call last night to get smashed and talk business, but he had trusted Pete's judgment then, and that hadn't changed, despite the rest of the evening's choices leaving him feeling halfway dead the morning after. The man was about the closest thing to a professional in the freelance caravan business, someone who had spent decades taking contracts, sometimes setups, sometimes double-crosses, sometimes just sour deals. He'd taken bullets, knives, at least one frag grenade, the shrapnel of which he still carried around in his pocket after Doc Dulles managed to pull the big pieces out of him; nothing slowed him down except for a lack of contracts. Which, from the sound of it, was exactly why he was making such a risky drive; the competition between the merchant houses was getting too stiff, driving the independent guys like Pete to desperation or poverty. Mercer didn't blame him; the salvage in the area around Olum, even down by Larwill, was all dried up. People had been through all the pre-War places, picked them clean. The only good scrap was found in inhabited areas, like the manhunter base he had ducked into to get Harry his music tape. As much as he loved Olum, it was drying up, like places always did, and he'd have to either move on or move in. The thought triggered a memory of Laura the night before, asking him with sadness in her eyes to stay, start a life, be a father to his unknown son. He shuddered a little, just as he had when she had asked him.

Another knock caused him to turn and groan. Millie was getting impatient, and he was still sitting around in his underwear playing with guns. With a shout of affirmation to the proprietress, he stowed his guns, ammo, money, and dirty clothes into the pack, gathered up his (relatively speaking) clean garments, and carried the whole lot across the hall into the bathroom. Once there, he put his gear against the wall, the clean clothes on the floor by the sink, and threw his old boxers in with the rest of his stuff before stepping into the claw-footed bathtub. The spout on the bathtub had been closed off the water system by Millie, to keep her guests' water usage at a minimum, but the shower attachment, a spindly collection of copper pipes and fittings someone had tacked onto the end of the tub, worked just fine. It spat out a steady stream of cold water that quickly heated up to a much more soothing temperature. For a moment, he stood in the tub, the water draining down his sturdy frame, tracing its own path down the lines of scars over his chest and back, his fingers wrapped around his trapezii as he massaged his shoulder and back muscles; he had gotten used to being sore from his line of work years, even decades, ago, but it was still always nice to loosen things up when he could. He rolled his shoulders, hearing his shoulder blades pop and crack, then grabbed the bar of soap off a wire rack that had been welded to the water pipe and got to work.

The grime came off him slowly, it'd probably been a week or more since the last really good rainstorm and he was long overdue for a real bath. As he continued to wash, his mind returned to Laura and Luke, waiting for him at the Nook. She'd been totally different than what he'd been expecting: caring, concerned, hoping for a future, instead of angry and accusing. She'd wanted to let go of him, like he'd wanted to let go of his own bad memories, but neither one of them had been able to go through with it, always coming back to that glimmer of hope that taunted from the darkness. In all honesty, she'd been a lot better of a person than he did, being able to let the entirety of the last eight years slide as easily as she did. In a lot of ways, she'd been a lot better off without Mercer around, and she knew it. Laura knew the score, she certainly wasn't a foolish woman, no matter how idealistic she might've been that they could have a family together; she got money from time to time to help keep things running, and she had plenty of support from Ruby and the rest of the town. Besides, it wasn't uncommon for kids in the wasteland to grow up without a dad; he certainly had, and a lot of other people had, too. They'd go out to work, or scavenge, or trade one day and never return. Sometimes they'd turn up, years later, in a watering hole in a neighboring town, having left their responsibilities behind them long ago, or settled down with a new family after they felt the first one just wasn't working out. Others were lost to the wastes, casualties of any number of things. Maybe that's what spurred her to be so calm the night before; people disappeared in the wasteland every day. Luke having his dad around, someone to teach him how to survive in the world, it would have been a lot more than most kids got, himself included.

He paused his thoughts, lifting his face and squinting his eyes as he shook his head back and forth under the water, letting it hit his face and wash away the dust and dried sweat. After lathering up his hands, he placed the soap back on the little shelf and began scrubbing at his face, eyes screwed shut to protect them. He left no spot untouched, neither behind his ears nor in his beard, which was badly in need of a trim and starting to get more scraggly than he preferred. After his face, he lathered up again and went for his undercarriage, smirking to himself when he realized just how long it had been since he had a night with someone. Laura had been the last one he'd cared about, just a few months after Luke had been born. Since then, he'd had a few romps, but not many, maybe one every other year; as he'd gotten older, his sex drive had taken a nosedive. It wasn't like he'd been a young buck back when he'd first hit Olum, already pushing his mid-thirties, but he and Laura had shared plenty of nights together before he bugged out. Since then, he'd found that he just didn't have the same spark or passion; maybe there was something to what she was saying about still harboring feelings for him, maybe it went both ways. The girls after her had been blurs in his memory, a flash of thigh here and a halfhearted moan there, nothing like the memories he had of her supple skin, her gentle touch, and the love in her eyes as she had snuggled up to him after a busy day. The more he thought of her, the more he felt happy, to his surprise. He started to slump against the wall nearest to the bathtub, he felt warm, and he was smiling softly to himself. Just then, the water started to cool down drastically. He jumped, yelping at the sudden temperature change and dropping the soap into the porcelain tub. Not more than a minute later, just as he had established a defensive position at the far end of the bathtub, a knock came at the door, followed by Millie's voice booming through clearly.

"Mercer, quit using up all the hot water! I'm cutting you off; either you shower in the cold or you finish up!"

"Yes ma'am," he called back, shivering and covering himself against the frigid water.

He had been almost done washing his unmentionables when the temperature had changed, so with a few dashes of cold water he finished the job and moved on to his hair, which was matted with dirt and grease. There, at least, the cold didn't really matter as much as down below; in a way, it was almost refreshing. He rinsed his hair several times and ran his fingers through, getting knots and tangles worked out. With everything cleaner than it had been before, he shut off the water and shivered in the tub, his arms crossed tightly over his chest for warmth. Millie had a few towels beside the bathtub that she laundered and restocked regularly for her guests; unfortunately, the rest of the boarders had already come through and used them, tossing them carelessly onto the tiled floor. With a chuckle through clenched teeth, he sorted through the pile and found a towel that was damp, but not filthy, and used it to dry off to the best of his ability, then tossed it onto the top of the rest. After dressing himself, he slung his pack over one shoulder, kicked his boots together to settle his still-damp socks into them better, and headed downstairs. His stomach was growling like a rabid dog and, while his headache had passed for the most part, he was feeling woozy from hunger. Naturally, his first stop was the kitchen, where Millie was waiting with a scowl and a plate of food for him.

"I got cleaning to do, so if you've got all your things, I'll be cleaning up your room. You had better not made a mess up there."

"Somebody piss in the water tank again, Millie? You seem awfully sore about something today."

The older woman huffed, her back already turned to him as she was fixing up a cup of lukewarm coffee. When she had turned around to put it on the weathered breakfast table, Mercer had already seated himself and was chowing down on the eggs and meat. She slid the mug under his nose, her hand over it, and waited until he had ceased his assault on her cooking.

"You know I haven't forgotten what you did for me, young man, but you can at least do an old woman a bit of courtesy and stop by at a reasonable hour. Seems like, ever since I let you start leaving your money under the vase in the hall, I might as well not even be here; unless, of course, you need a bite to eat or someone to drag you out of the bathroom after you've puked your guts up all over my floor. A 'how do you do' would be appreciated every once in a while, and maybe a bit more respect."

"No, 'course not, Millie," Mercer replied, sheepishly. "I'll tell you what, I go through the Fort in a few days' time. If I see something old there, an antique-"

"No, no," the matron cut him off, sharply. "I'm through with bribes, Mercer. Either you start coming by during normal business hours and stop treating me like your personal nurse, or you start finding somewhere else to sleep it off."

The scavenger sighed and looked back at the plate, setting his fork down, before nodding slowly. Bribery hadn't worked with Laura, either.

"Okay. I'll come by the next time before you close up. Good?"

"You'd better. It's a shame you couldn't have grown up before the bombs, otherwise you'd know that you never keep a woman waiting."

That elicited a laugh from the scavenger, who was back to thinking about his lunch appointment.

"I'm sure it was a wonderful time, Millie," he replied after a moment, gently sliding his coffee mug from under her hand and sipping from it. The old woman looked away for a moment with a wistful grimace.

"There were good points about it, sure," she began, trailing off into her own memory. Mercer looked up to see her staring away, one hand absentmindedly wrapped around something she had on a silver chain around her neck. "I need to go clean the rooms now. Don't forget, Mercer."

"No more than you can, I expect," he replied, still mouthing off, and regretted it instantly. Despite his growling stomach, his appetite had diminished at the sight of Millie's wounded expression just before she left the kitchen. Alone at the breakfast table, the scavenger sighed, slumping over his plate and resting his head on one arm.

It wasn't good etiquette to bring up the War around people who could remember it, he had learned over the years. All of them, even a codger like Ortley, the eccentric Miss Ruby, or a tough old cuss like Harry, had lives ripped apart, loved ones taken away in a flash. The world they had known before had been burned away into a desolate, bloody mess. It was the kind of pain that followed them to bed every night, that hung over their head like a radioactive storm cloud. No matter how many relationships, or memories, or booze, in some cases, they tried to pile up in that ever-growing void that was the past, it never seemed to be more than a moment away, ready to pounce at the mere mention of its name. Something else he had learned over the years, though, was no matter how badly the pain hurt, it couldn't kill; it was like a bad sickness or the mother of all hangovers, leaving the victim bedridden and miserable, bringing them right up to death's doorstep and no further. It might take some time, but the effects of his retort would fade.

He finished the meal and coffee, his hangover receding steadily and his hunger sated for the time being. To his left, on the kitchen's faded floral wallpaper, was an antique clock, lots of mahogany and brass, that read just before 11. With another sigh, he washed his dishes off and set them on the drainboard that had been built into the counter's cracked porcelain surface. As he made his way towards the foyer, he could hear sounds of footsteps from upstairs, Millie getting to work; the comment from before burned in his memory and, for a moment, he thought about leaving her an extra half on the table beside the vase. She would see it as soon as she came downstairs, as eagle-eyed as she was for anything out of place in her house. He decided against it, after a fair bit of inner debate; she had already said that bribery wouldn't work, and besides, his comment hadn't been out of malice. It wasn't the first of its kind, and it certainly wouldn't be the last. Through the large window that faced south towards Jackson Street, he could see a few people milling about in the parking lot across the way, making their way towards the Raupfer and Van Buren Street. It was getting towards lunch for a lot of folks, the Nook would be packed in less than an hour and Laura was a lot like him, very introverted, hated crowds; if she was going to meet him for lunch, she'd wait until the lunch rush thinned out. That meant he had a couple of hours to kill in town. With a final glance back at the staircase, Mercer grunted and shifted his pack on his shoulder, then walked outside of Old House.


End file.
